We've got balls*

If I had to list the three things I probably write about too often (or at least, more often than I write about anything else), those things would be bad dates, punctuation, and the gym. This is not about bad dates or punctuation.

Some of you may remember the post Red wrote a couple months ago about her fancy, schmancy new gym. For whatever reason, the part I remember most about that story was the part about the lady at the desk rolling her eyes and apologizing that they had a step class going on. "I guess some people are still into Step," she apparently said. I read that and was hit with the same embarrassed confusion I remember being aware of in first grade, when I watched Blair chastise Jo for wearing "last year's jeans." At the time, most of my clothes were hand-me-downs not even from my older sister but from the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store where my grandmother volunteered. I had no idea there was such a thing as "last year's jeans." If the jeans still fit, weren't you still supposed to wear them?

That strange Facts of Life tangent was basically my way of saying I had no idea Step was passe'. My gym still offers Step classes regularly, and I've been attending those classes somewhat regularly for over three years now. The teal/magenta/gray color scheme of the steps and support boxes is pretty much a dead giveaway that those props have been in the aerobics studio since the late 80s at least, but I didn't realize the same props weren't still in use at everyone else's gym as well.

In any case, I think my gym finally noticed that Red's gym was pointing and laughing and mocking it openly, because suddenly all of the Step classes are being replaced by BOSU ball classes. If you're a member of one of those cool-kids gyms, you probably saw these things years ago already. Since my gym is as big a dork as an eighth-grade-me, however, I had to look it up. If you're clueless like I was, here--I'll help you out: click this link.

It took about five minutes of my first BOSU class for me to start feeling comfortable on the ball and enjoy the change of pace to something new. I started bouncing with confidence, actually entertaining the thought that this might be fun disguised as exercise! As I jumped and hopped around, I remembered being young and carefree and full of energy playing in the Moonwalk at county fairs or bobbing around my parents' basement on a Hippity-Hop.** This wasn't just a workout; this was a chance to reconnect with my youth! Considering I can't drive past a trampoline in someone's yard without plotting ways to sneak back and jump on it without getting arrested (or worse--having to befriend a person under 10), this was quite exciting to me.

That was the first five minutes. It took another five before I realized I have no business on a BOSU ball. I am not what you would call coordinated (actually, I believe we've covered this already). I am, after all, the girl who once tore a ligament jumping down the two tiny steps in her parents' living room because a balloon happened to be between her foot and the floor. This memory resurfaced quickly when I landed on the BOSU wrong and turned my ankle a bit. I was pretty sure my BOSU endeavor was over as quickly as it began. Fortunately, I recovered discreetly and got back on the ball (and just remained a bit more cautious thereafter).

I've been to three classes now, and I think I'm getting the hang of it, though I wonder how long before the novelty wears off and BOSU gets as tired and routine as Step. I think my gym's management is a little worried about that, too, so they're trying to keep us distracted and overstimulated enough that we don't notice. When they brought in the carts of blue BOSU balls, they didn't remove the teal and magenta Step paraphernalia. They just added the new equipment right alongside the net of brightly colored red, yellow, and blue balance balls, which hangs to the left of the plastic Rubbermaid bins filled with green and purple resistance bands, red and yellow rubber tubing, and floral-printed yoga mats. In addition, the gym's also started offering hooping classes (again, presumably to disguise exercise as fun and bring out our inner child), so a gaggle of multi-colored hula-hoops now hangs on the same pegs that hold our spongy red situp mats. I get a headache just looking at the chaos of colors that this cluttered mess of props has created in the studio. The place is like a fucking circus.

In other words, I'm pretty sure Red's gym will still point and laugh, but now there'll be a tinge of pity to the ridicule. My gym is like the loser in a John Hughes-era movie who tried to buy the right clothes and put on the right makeup to be just like the popular kids, but still ended up getting it just a little bit wrong. Come to think of it, maybe my geeky, awkward gym is actually the perfect place for me after all.



----------------------------------------
* I'm sure I'm going to some sort of Blogger hell for pulling out a pun as bad as that, but since a better title just isn't coming to me, that is, unfortunately, the only title you're going to get.

** Did I really need to link to those, or would you all have known what the heck I was talking about even without the visual aids?