I went to my first Bar Method class on Thursday. I haven’t been to a group exercise class since I was pregnant with Samantha. I’m getting a little tired of exercise videos, and a little desparte to fit into my clothes again, so I thought I’d give it a try.
I walked into the brand new studio where you still smell the new carpet and there were no marks on the wooden lockers with confidence. I used to attend these sorts of classes regularly and I’m not in horrible shape. Sure, I want to lose some weight and inches, and I have a little flab around the middle I could do without, but I’m a healthy body weight. Plus I thought I might meet some other moms and we could discuss how good our bodies were before kids.
They asked first time students to come a little early to fill out forms and get acquainted with the studio, so I was the first person in the room. The other students started arriving a few minutes later. They were in their mid-twenties, maybe thirty. They wore cute Lulemon outfits that showed off their childless figures. Not all of them were smaller than me, some were overweight, but there was still a general firmness that I just don’t have anymore. They talked about the apartments they lived in and which buildings were nice and weather they were still hung over from the night before. (Did I mention this was Thursday?) As I sat there observing these girls, I realized I was no longer young.
Now, I realize I’m not old, but I’m not young anymore either. I see those girls who are ten to fifteen years younger than me, and I think of them as kids. They act like kids, they talk like kids, and they’re a little silly. I have no desire to be that age again, but until that moment I didn’t realize how far from it I am. I didn’t realize I am smack in middle age territory.
During the class the girls were showing me up. Granted, it was my first time, but still. When the instructor said we could take our hands off the ground while doing V-ups, I thought to myself, nope, my hands on the ground are just fine, even though I was the only one with my hands down.
Before Sammy, I would have been in that class, taking all the advanced options, looking around to see who I was better than and who was better than me. Before Sammy, the class would have given me a good workout, but I wouldn’t have walked out with Jell-o legs and regretted taking the stairs down two flights to the parking garage. Before Sammy, my legs may have been a little sore the next day, but not still screaming when I bent over two days later.Before Sammy, I would have cared that my tummy pooches out when I do sit-ups. Before Sammy, I would have cared that those girls were beating me.
But I’m not young anymore. And that’s a nice thing, because I don’t care any more. I’m there to get a good workout and if that means I’m the grandma in the room, so be it. I went back Sunday morning. The group still was predominantly young girls, but there were some older women, an older man, and a teenage boy. And it was a different vibe and the instructor was older than me. And I got a good workout.
So I’m going to keep going back. Middle age and all. Unless my clothes don’t start to fit. Then all bets are off.