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Exercise Class

Wellness

Mama said knock you out

May 27, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … plow through Piloxing.

So, Piloxing® is hard.

While my motions say otherwise, I am learning so much about myself through these classes. Turns out, I like to hit shit. Who knew? Well, I like to swing at the air and pretend that I’m hitting shit. It’s not like a hidden rage thing, it’s more like … OK, so I work an 8-5, I have three children, my husband and I can sing every word of Love is an Open Door, and guys, I like jorts. Not like cutoffs, or those cool, high-waisted Coachella girl ones. I’m talkin’ Bermudas, baby. I love ‘em. I do. So, my point is, when do I get to be a badass?

Piloxing has more punching than it’s butt-kicking cousin, Turbo Kick®, which, as I already covered, makes me a big fan. While it still requires coordination, it doesn’t have the rapid turnover sequences. It has “blocks”. Blocks are my buddy because they give me time to figure out what the frick is going on before we’re on to the next move. And I don’t know if it was the humidity hangover from the afternoon thunderstorm or the feistier-than-appearances-would-suggest instructor, but mama was sweatin’ like Britney without a background track. I could actually feel the beer and s’mores from the past 4 days liquefy and be exorcised from my system.

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But for every high there is a low and with Piloxing, it’s the gloves and balance. Before the class started (Why do I always have to be so damn prompt? Why can’t I just straggle in during warmup like all the cool gym girls?), the instructor gave me a quick overview and offered a flash of her colorful gloves. This handwear, she explained, offers a light, added weight to optimize your upper body efforts and increase results. And, oh, they sell them. Of course they do. Gosh dang it. Just like the girl with the rowing shoes … or the people with the special clip-in spinning shoes … or yoga mats with built-in cooling pockets (made it up) … there’s always something, isn’t there? But as I hooked and jabbed and punched, I realized my jort-free badass self wanted the stinkin’ gloves.

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The “pil” part of the class is a healthy dose of pilates core work, presented on this night in a block of balancing moves. So, the funniest thing happened. It turns out somewhere between my first pregnancy and a 6 year old coming in to go potty while I’m trying to take a hot bath, I lost the ability to stand on one foot. Truth be told, it didn’t come as a shock. I’ve been the girl whose tree pose appears to be wavering in a blustery breeze for months now. The other gals had it and I was the flailing distraction in the corner of their eyes. Sorry about that, ladies.

Definitely hitting this one up again (pun intended). The only sign I needed was when Still Not a Player by Big Pun came on as I turned onto my suburban street. And hell yes I turned that shit up!

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Until next time …  

Wellness

It’s Turbo time

April 3, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … tackle a Turbo Kick class.

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 …