“Little pulses now. We have to start stronger before we can get faster.”
Every day, since everything, including my gym, closed down in the March to end all Marches,
I have moved my living room table, grabbed my three pound weights and
through an online mat barre routine, learned that my core was not as strong
as I once assumed by running to the Pixies on the treadmill.
For a few of those early days, I toyed with yoga – the introductory classes alone
made me sweat – but I wanted to feel like I was making up for my lost cardio.
Barre, though, satisfied my instinct for self-punishment, and made me suffer doubly
for my insolence toward classes when they were available on my gym membership.
I have wonky ankles. A small, but uncomfortable calcium build-up, thrills the masochist in me
with every sideways lunge, after which I’m asked to hold one foot to my knee and
reach my arms up.
“Can you stay high in that posture?”
At first, my online instructor was a benevolent angel – I had taken her online Pilates
and was thrilled at how easily I’d committed those moves to muscle memory –
but her cheerful speed grated on me with every added wince of my ankle.
No, I answered, I will not add a smile to that leg lift.
Now we’re in Phase II. So official, it sounds like an administrative vaccine.
My gym reopened; my membership dues are still drawn monthly, but
I’ve yet to step inside my erstwhile haunt. Every day, I think I’ll just go and take a look-see.
But, then, I can just work on my core here in my urban cave.
Sometimes, I even change out of my pajamas before doing the class.
“Little pulses now. Small. Behind you. But, they’re working.”