Friday, February 03, 2006

The Gayest Thing, Ever

After the yoga debacle yesterday, I was trepidatious going back to NYSC this morning. However, our salesperson at the club raved about this Power Dance class, about how much fun she has taking it. She totally had me at the word, "dance".

You may or may not know that before the illness, before the kids, before the career-ending injury, I was a dancer. A bun-head, a ballerina. You certainly would never suspect it, looking at me now. Pathetically, dance was my whole life. All those dreams of NYBT dashed against the rocks of chondro malacia patella, the toe shoes I wore when both knees blew out when I was en pointe relegated to the dark corner of my closet.

Once I recovered and was rehabilitated, I had to find ways to stay in shape. First it was aerobics: I got a little too into it and re-injured my knees. Then it was weight-training, running, and boot camp workouts: I got a little too into it and re-injured my knees. Finally, I settled into yoga and pilates: great for flexibility, not so great for keeping weight off.

A friend of mine is probably the fittest person on Long Island, and he gave me some great advice for getting in shape without permanently jacking up my knees. He whole-heartedly despises commerical gyms and the "personal trainers" therein. Their uselessness is well known, but I do need someone to bark at me and help me stay focused. Distracted by shiny objects much?

So Monday I shall endure a "personal training session" with one of the dill holes I see schlumping around NYSC. Neat!

About the Power Dance class: Picture, if you will, a former Broadway dancer,'40-ish male, who looks like someone's Irish uncle and sounds like Richard Simmons, if Richard were a baritone from Flushing. He's singing, he's dancing, he's running around the room, he's cracking wise and calling all us elephantine mesdemoiselles, "Bubbies".

We cha-cha, we rhumba, we merengue. To the shrill sounds of "Gypsy", "Funny Girl", and "Phantom of the Opera" we pirouette, we ronde des jambs, we do a kickline in sweaty workout gear and ugly shoes. Somewhere, from deep inside me, emerges old dancing Trouble, and I start showing off my arabesques. He looked over, nodded, and said, "Nice form!" I was thrilled to pieces.

It is fabulously absurd. Only the gayest person in the world would enjoy something like this. Color me in rainbow stripes--I can't wait until the next class!


Blogger marty said...

I think you should buy "Sweating to the Oldies." I can't imagine anything more humiliating than being on that tape.

Your gym experience can't possibly be worse.

7:46 PM  

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