Saturday, January 16, 2010

And I'm dancing with myself

The Total Body Conditioning (TBC, thank you very much) class I usually take Saturday mornings at the gym starts in 6 minutes and I’m not there. It’s a busy class, always full, and you can barely eek out space and territory. Like when you need to change lanes on the highway, once folks plop down a step and weights they don’t care that you need to merge but keep eyes forward, make themselves invisible. Don't see you.

Find myself working out more solo lately (dirty). I used to love the class format. Did Jazzercise for years and even after I left the bosom of middle-age jazz hands for the stainless steel of a for real gym, I took to classes first. Zumba and step, got quickly hooked on spinning, cardio and Power Pump (wait for it…dirty). Thing is, save spinning, the classes are almost always 100% filled with women.

I like the man energy, it pushes my work out, makes me hold in my stomach more and pull up my abs. Perform better. Plus the guys are usually in great shape. Nothing against my womankind - there are hot lady bods there too. I just tend to notice them less, except for their asses because we all wear those stretchy black pants that cup and curl, lift and separate and I take note of, envy even, the really lovely ones. Mine not so much, but I did like what reflected back in the mirror the other day as I bent over in my skinny dark wash jeans. More round, less flat.

In spinning I’d pick either one of the two coaches whose class I adore (both women) and match pace with them. But better yet, should a guy saddle up next to my bike, I’d take rotation to rotation, spin of the wheel for spin of the wheel, our knees rising in absolute unison despite the speed, despite the tension and despite lungs burning outward from my chest. I like to hear the heavy breathing, that slight grunting.

Same for yoga. When I don’t attend morning sessions (chock full of Mom’s, all blonde and all stay at home) but the evening power work or Sunday classes, half the students are men. With muscles and that wonderful horizontal stretch and line that runs shoulder to shoulder. They look good in plank. The focus is on my intent and flow, of course, but I also want to show my strength.

So in just a bit I’ll head to the gym and take root on a power incline treadmill or cross trainer. I’ll crank my Shuffle, hit heavy intervals and smile or nod at passers-by. I’ll watch the men and the boys and the gray hair gents and maybe I’ll strike up a conversation with the older blond fireman who always seems to be where I go lately (stretching on the floor, fetching water, on the piece of equipment next to mine). Seems like a friendly enough fellow. And he’s got wicked good calf muscles.

I’ll steer clear of the requisite assholes, like the brittle woman with the too high and drafty shorts who stays on equipment for hours at time, even while other are circling, hoping for a hop on. And those with the blind side, the “I don’t see you” straight ahead stare (see above). Or the guy who is there only to check out the ladies with great asses in the black stretchy work out pants.

Admittedly, I glance a package when a package is worthy.

1 comment:

justsomethoughts... said...

but what happens if a worthy package is attached to an asshole?
i had to ask

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