After a long fucking week of toil where it felt like I was helping everyone with their work and doing none of my own, I figured what the hell, I might as well take the free circuit training class in the gym at lunchtime. Only, it turns out I was the only fucking one with that notion.

My worst nightmare realized. Me, a gym teacher (of sorts) and an empty gym. One-on-one style. Not my style. No, not at all.

Carla is a nice woman and knows her physiology, stretching, exercising stuff. She’s also of the demeanor that makes living in California a bit tough for me. You see, in my universe, or the one shared by the voices in my head, there’s a need for constant commentary. Complaining, mocking, riffing, talking smack, laughing, teasing, hyperbole that is how one passes the time while digging ditches, hanging with friends or grunting on a mat in the middle of a fitness facility.

In Cali, much to my chagrin, wait is it “chagrin” or something else? Much to my, “oh yeah I fucking forgot you people are literal,” this kind of smack talk is taken earnestly. Like when I say I’m dying, someone needs to ask if I’m alright. You know, just in case, I’m dying.

Carla, bless her kindness, is one of those folks who actually listens to my moans. Poor thing.

So, when I, awkwardly trying to gain some sort of momentary stillness on a bosu

Or question my dignity as I grunt and sweat through a series of unfamiliar acts of arms and legs flaying, I tend to mention my life-long disability as a completely awkward, uncoordinated, prat-falling dork. As my eldest brother pointed out, as a former ski instructor with a lot of balance conditioning under his belt, he thinks he could teach anyone balance and coordination, EXCEPT me.

Foolish of me not to just shut the fuck up, really. My gym trainer now has taken interest in me and wants special time to teach me special exercises to force my 44-year-old ball of flesh to lithely balance like the swan I never was.

Oy.

So, we then were alone in the gym together. To say that kind of attention on me and my physicality was undesired would be to say Hiroshima was an explosion. More than a bit understated.

We crawled together in several styles, creeping combat style, classic baby crawl, soft-legged on all fours, stiffed legs I was supposed to use my feet and ankles to thrust me along, the entire length of the gym back and forth ad infinitum. Well, not quite infinite, since I did have the excuse of getting back to work.

We also discuss musculature and strength (or my lack), symmetry (and my lack), posture (ditto, wait, I have a posture, just an awkward, jutting neck, round-shouldered one) and apparently I walk with my toes pointed outward more than they should. Fuck yeah, I am a middle-aged hottie. I suppose in a cro-magnon way, my stance is swell. Leastways, that’s how I felt as our crawling evolved up the species and I never quite got the hang of upright and graceful.

I’m a knuckle dragger from way back.

In fairness, she gave me ample time to discuss and think about and try some exercises that might combat the pain and stiffness with which I tend to live. And, given that Pat died bitching about chronic pain in her legs and possibly her back (hard to say, as her bitching was rather free-form) and was about a foot shorter than she should have been in her final years, I should listen.

But, lord almighty, I fucking hated gym class at 8 years old, and I fucking hate it now. Maybe if I had ever grown out of my awkward years, I’d be chill. Next time, I’ll just whisper that I think I might be getting my period and ask to lie down in the school nurse’s office.

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