People who are close to me already know the awful truth, but this is the first time I am publicizing the sad fact that I suffer from a medical condition known as Severe Exercise Allergy or Gym Aversion Syndrome. I’ve been like this ever since my skirt fell off during gym class in second grade. Since most people have never heard of this condition they tend to scoff when I try to explain my refusal to join them in any exercise program. “But it’s so healthy,” they’ll claim. Or, “you’ll feel ten years younger once you try this class.” However, they never understand that I have a visceral, adverse reaction to contorting my body needlessly in a supposed attempt to improve my well-being. For me, exercise accomplishes the opposite effect; it proves injurious to my health.

When my good friend Sally volunteered to shape me into a better person and teach an aerobics class for me and a few friends in the comfort of my living room, I couldn’t refuse. What I didn’t realize was that lying on the floor in certain convoluted positions would induce dizziness and extreme nausea, causing me to spend the entire class in the bathroom throwing up while everyone else was having a blast in my living room. Goodbye aerobics. Don’t slam the door on your way out, girls. After that dismal morning, I resisted all other programs, even those that promised to rejuvenate me in a half hour or less. I even felt totally vindicated when Curves eventually went bankrupt. They should have consulted with me. I knew better.

But then there came the Zumba craze. Everyone was doing it and my friends (not Sally, she had given up on me) were urging me to give it a try. “Come on, it’s so much fun. It’s not really even exercise. It’s like dancing at a wedding.” The class was being given at the nearby Senior Center, and if all the other seniors could do it, then maybe so could I. The truth is that I really do enjoy dancing at weddings as long as my heels aren’t too high and the girls don’t twirl around screaming. It also helps if the circle I’m in consists of the mother of the bride and her friends, people of a certain age. Anyway, I foolishly gave in; I would give it a try…this Zumba thing, totally ignoring my doubting daughter who merely laughed when I told her where I was going. Yes, this time I’d show all the nay-sayers that they were wrong. This would be the start of a new, trendy me.

So off I went to the Senior Center, armed with brand new sneakers and exercise clothes. There, my surprised friends enthusiastically greeted me. “You’re gonna’ love it,” they enthused. “Wait and see. You’re gonna’ thank us.” I nodded and hesitantly joined the group, stationing myself in front, in the first of three horizontal rows of women. This way I could easily follow the lead of the instructor standing right in front of us. Who knew that this petite, older woman was a former professional Latin American dancer whose dancing could rival any Dancing With the Stars contestant?

I tried that afternoon. I really did make an effort to keep up. But there was no way I could follow the teacher’s fancy legwork or mimic the complicated moves of the other women. Maybe if I moved back one row, I thought? Perhaps the dancers in the second row were less adept than the ones in the front. There had to be, I reasoned, someone in this whole room as klutzy as I was. Suddenly, a new song began. The dance steps quickened and although it didn’t seem possible, grew even trickier than before. I, however, just grew clumsier, turning right when everyone turned left, moving forward as the group moved back. I felt like an idiot trying to follow, moving robotically as everyone else swayed and sashayed gracefully to the rhythm of the music.

Sweating, I moved back once more, this time to the last row of dancers. I glanced behind me. There on a row of empty chairs as if beckoning to me, lay my coat and handbag where I had optimistically placed them just a few moments before. Looking around I saw that everyone else was engrossed in the music. Stealthily, I stepped backwards to the beat of the music, and proceeded to grab my coat and bag and beat a hasty retreat to the exit, a Zumba dropout! No one even noticed me leave or realized that I was gone.

Outside, I breathed in a deep breath of fresh air and proceeded to do the only exercise I ever truly do enjoy and am quite good at, some retail therapy. It doesn’t make me motion sick and I never experience charley horse or fatigue. Without hesitation, I started my car and headed straight to the mall. There I can do speed walking without feeling drained. I lift pounds of clothing without complaint and carry weighted bags that probably strengthen my muscles while they gladden my heart. It may not resemble a gym, but this is the place where I feel comfortable, know all the moves, and feel quite happy and physically fit.

So, while I do hate to admit to any of my former students who may be reading this that I once theoretically cut a class, they will have to understand that for me this transgression was purely due to a health issue. What I said earlier is clearly the truth: “I am severely allergic to the gym!”

Estelle Glass, a Teaneck resident, is a retired educator who is now happily writing her own essays.

By Estelle Glass