Despite our own self-protective instincts, we walk into the room to meet our instructor. We take great care to brief her on our special needs: Wifey has short bones and a hypermobile body; I broke my tailbone playing roller derby like a boss. She can't do certain arm exercises; I'm allergic to lunges.
Class begins with a series of exercises; remarkably, we keep up. This isn't so bad. I can do this. Then Instructor explains that this was our warm-up. Wait. This was just the warm-up? Should I be ready to go home already?
I'm looking longingly at my water
bottle when Gym Barbie enters the room. Just as I'm wondering if it means
anything that already I would trade State secrets for a drink, she
breezes in without a care and joins us on the mats. I drink it all in; her skinny frame, her
shiny hair, her skin-tight crop pants, her halter-style sports bra.
Christ, the swoosh of her Nikes matches the graceful swoop of pink
ribbon on her pants. She doesn't even bother putting up her hair
before jumping in.
Class continues; I flail my parts
around roughly the same way Instructor demonstrated. My body pulses
with pain and exhaustion. I hear grunting. Is someone whining?
Wait, that's all me. Gym Barbie isn't grunting. Rather than
dragging deep, erratic breaths in through her mouth like a dying
mummy, she's taking controlled breaths—in through the nose, out
through the mouth. Her exhales are cute little bursts of air, almost
a whistle.
We begin a new set of exercises with
one-minute planks. I plant my palms on the mat and lift up onto my
toes. In fascination, I watch as sweat rains off my face. My hands
struggle to say in place; they squeak against the mat as my wet palms
slide outward. I sneak a look at Gym Barbie; she looks like she could
stay like this all day. Not only is she not pouring sweat all over
the mat, but her hair is hanging around her head, dry as when she
walked in the door.
Burn the witch.
Now Instructor wants us to do tricep
dips. I wedge myself in front of a chair, palms on its seat, doing a
sort of reverse pushup. I am no longer in control of the noises
coming from my body. Gym Barbie is still breathing steadily.
Finally, she emits a noise that hints at how hard we're working. A
tiny little grunt, followed by stacatto syllables timed perfectly with
her little dips, “Woo! I...hun...ger...for...the pain!”
I can't decide whether she represents
what I hope to someday be, if her presence pushes me to perform
better, or if she exists merely to taunt me with what I can never be.
I do know one thing for sure.
Ha ha ha ha. This was hilarious. And I am probably in your camp on this one. I hate Gym Barbie too ;)
ReplyDeletePopping by from the Yeah Write Grid
Thanks for the comment!
ReplyDeleteGym Barbie haunts me...
That was an amusing scenario!
ReplyDeleteHahaha! Oh yes, Gym Barbie is a familiar figure of envy for me too. Sadly, she's also a dear friend, so I don't hate her… but I do look askance at her every.single.time. Very funny piece, nicely written.
ReplyDelete"Class continues; I flail my parts around roughly the same way Instructor demonstrated." Omg this...I can relate all too well.
ReplyDeleteLOL yes. Definitely hate gym Barbie too. Give yourself a pat on the back though, sounds like you kept up with her and I bet you could take if you wanted to! LOL
ReplyDeleteThis story has been working out at the gym and has serious muscle. Nicely done. Love a perfectly emphatic 3 word paragraph.
ReplyDeleteIf only she had slipped a little or hit her teeth on the rim of her Perrier bottle, then maybe, just maybe she'd be forgiven.
ReplyDeleteMaybe. Probably not, though.
ReplyDelete