Oh. My. God. My face nearly froze and cracked off when I stepped outside today.
I only stepped outside today, leaving the comfort of my climate-controlled apartment, because I had a complimentary pass to a gym. I love free stuff, and especially free gym passes, so I braved seven blocks and near-hypothermia to get my workout on. I planned to make the most of my visit, and I calculated it strategically based on the class schedule. I arrived at 5:30pm and geared up for three hours of back-to-back classes, starting with “Flabuless.”
Now, from the name alone, I should have known this wouldn’t be the class for me. I was five minutes early, and the class was already crammed full of chit-chatting women, two of whom took it upon themselves to instruct me where to place my step. Yes, step. Getting flabuless apparently involves the use of a Reebok step (which I’d have bet money was obsolete by now). And then there was the instructor. A woman dressed in black and blue (very fitting, as she was a bruiser), whom I swear is on steroids. She was all muscle, bulging muscle, and had visible neck veins. That didn’t bother me – live and let live – but what did bother me was her volume. It was painful, and quite demanding. Question: Why, in a class with twenty, maybe thirty students, is a microphone (and shouting into the microphone) necessary?
I survived Flabuless, and it’s possible that the instructor’s voice jostled some of my flab into submission, but I’d be lying to say I enjoyed it one bit. The next two classes were mediocre at best, and at the end of the day, I felt glad to have gotten some exercise, but I guess the old adage is true: You get what you pay for.