You're No Bed of Roses Yourself, You Know

My friend convinced me (i.e., nagged me and guilt tripped me until I gave in just to be done with it) to go with her to a class at the gym recently. "It's so great," she raved beforehand. "It's a good workout, and it's really fun, too."

The name of this class, by the way, is "Body Blast." Would you want to go to something called "Body Blast?" Yeah, me neither. But I had promised, so there I was.

When the class began slowly I was reassured, much as a frog placed in cold water on a stovetop remains calm. Unlike the frog, I noticed when the class instructor began rapidly increasing the difficulty of the workout. After about forty minutes I felt suddenly ill enough that I had to stop following the exercises and stand still. I halfheartedly faked my way through some motions, trying to breathe deeply and not be sick. And then I felt a kind of rumbling in my insides, a stirring headed south. I knew with great certainty that once this airy body blast dissipated I would feel better.

I might have tried to contain it, anyway, but I felt so queasy. I was lucky enough to be facing into the wind of the fans, and I could tell that it would be silent beneath the manic tunes on the sound system. That was the clincher.

I felt almost instantly well enough to rejoin the exercise and finish out the class session. Turns out I wasn't getting sick after all.

I do feel badly for the man who was standing behind me, though.


I wasn't really going to tell this story, but I am trying to write every day this month--and what the hell, I'm anonymous. (And if I'm not, just pretend.)