I cried a lot something alarming after I turned 40: my arms became overly friendly and continued to flap and wave after my hand stopped. I’ve been meaning to do something about it but plastic surgery is pricey.
Then I heard about a non-surgical solution. While visiting my childhood bestie in Ottawa, I let her talk me into a 6 a.m. class at her gym called
Auschwitz Body Pump. During the 20-minute drive there, I played dead. That didn’t work so upon arrival, I walked straight to the front desk where I ordered a non-fat cappuccino with a sliver of maple biscotti was asked to fill out a form. Question #5 should have been a red flag: Can I have your Lululemon pants if you die here?
Next, we climbed the stairs to the
torture chamber Body Pump room where my gelatinous arm waved to all its new friends while I gathered weights, a mat, and rosary beads. The instructor, I was told, murders kittens with her bare hands is in top shape and trains for Iron Man competitions. She singled me out as the newbie and told me to go light on the weights but challenge myself at the same time. I assured her that I would sue her ass if I break so much as a nail, never mind a sweat be fine.
The class began pleasantly enough. The instructor put on some upbeat tunes and told us to put 5 pound weights on our bars. Then she asked us to LIFT the bar containing the weights. That’s when I gave up. The teacher didn’t like seeing people just standing around staring at themselves in the mirror so in a
Navy Seals confident tone, she yelled, “Lift!” “Curl!” and “Stop staring at yourself in the mirror!”
After the first song I didn’t think I could take any more so when she said, “Time for lunch” I was weak with
hunger excitement. I was on my way out when my bestie clarified: “Time for lunges, not lunch”. Tough crowd.
I rejoined the group while trying not to hate the anorexic women who doubled the weight requirements on their bar. I regret tripping them when they walked by. #noidon’t. It seems the more weight I removed from my bar, the more they
pointed at me and said 75 lbs is the new obese piled onto theirs. By the end of the class, I was curling the emery board I found in my purse. And it was damn heavy. My nails look great though. #silver #lining.
Right after I screamed, “Someone pull this
emery board bar off me!”, the music wound down and it was over. I didn’t think heaven would smell this bad. I have to admit, after the paramedics carried me out past the bitch girl at the front desk eyeing my workout pants, I felt a sense of accomplishment. It’s not every day I have a workout AND an ambulance ride under my belt by 7 a.m.
The good news is I’ll walk again AND I’m no longer afraid of hell. Once I regain upper body strength, I plan to call
my lawyer a plastic surgeon to take care of my socially inclined arms.