Where’s Richard Simmons When He’s Needed?

Seventy minutes later, after the Bataan Death March (complete with bouncy ball) was finished, I wanted to die.

It could just be the summertime, but the urge to exercise has once again surfaced.  However, climbing aboard an elliptical trainer for the first time in (many) weeks seemed daunting.

So I did what any other irrational human being would do:  I took an aerobics class.  For the first time ever.

Seventy minutes later, after the Bataan Death March (complete with bouncy ball) was finished, I wanted to die.

It would have been ideal if it had ended there.  Seventy-two hours later I am still feeling the ill effects of a strenuous workout that, at the time, just felt “challenging.”  Little did I know I’d be hobbling across streets, limping to restaurant bathrooms, or falling out of the car all these days later.

In my defense, however, I lasted through the entire class — with the support of the all female participants and overly caffeinated aerobics instructor.  “See you again” were words that made me smile, despite the pain of doing something stupid (like taking a class for the first time, pushing it, and neglecting to stretch and “ease into it”).

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