It’s Turbo time

When I was in high school, my parents had this dog, Faith. Faith started out as my brother’s dog, but a pattern of puppy passing was beginning and she eventually went to my folks. She was a weird blend of breeds and we often referred to her as Santa’s Little Helper (you know, from the Simpson’s). I am a big believer that people get one, maybe two, great four-legged companions in life, and the rest tend to be just … well, dogs. Faith was a dog. She was nervous and jittery and her hair fell out in clumps. But saddest of all, in her golden years, Faith started having the wackiest seizures. Honest to Henry, I once saw her come up onto her two back legs and hop across the kitchen, twitching like a kangaroo covered in fire ants. It was awful and, admittedly a little funny now, but I bring it up here for a very good reason. Tonight, I was Santa’s Little Helper.

At my best friend’s urging, I decided to try Turbo Kick. She, conveniently, was away for my debut and unable to witness the chaos that was my attempt at the routine or, better phrased, the complete collapse in communication between my brain and my extremities.

So many of my basic neurological functions failed me. The jabs … the uppercuts … the roundhouses … it was a system overload no one could have seen coming. I felt like the drunk girl at a dry reception. It’s not the single action so much as the combinations; combinations that repeated but never formed a logical sequence in my brain. And people were hooting. No judgement. Whatever gets ya juiced up. But it did make the tone a little like exercising in the rain forest exhibit at the zoo.

Just when a faint whisper of confidence, in the form of a knee-up-crossbody-jab series, crept closer, the instructor threw out a “jack with air”. I froze … an ironic choice of words considering I was sweating like Martha Stewart at a tax audit. It was intimidating in its simplicity. A jumping jack where the exerciser is expected to come a handful of inches up off the ground. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was my temporary coordination drought. Maybe I just failed at rule no. 76, to play like a champion. But I could not do it. Every time she came to “jack air” I faltered. Until finally …

I went for it. I anticipated it was coming and I used the last of the gas in my tubby-girl tank and leaped. Only, it didn’t look like everyone else’s. It was special. It was more spasm than sporty. It was a dolphin changing its mind mid-trick. It was so Santa’s Little Helper! It’s now my Everest.

After the class, the regulars were so sweet. Three of them actually came up and told a few of us we, “Did great for our first time.” Imagine that … strangers talking to strangers. What a concept. I think I’ll go back just for the stellar social scene.

Until next time …