There are times when it’s a good thing to sweat the small stuff. Not that getting a ticket for making a wrong turn is such small stuff, because it’s aggravating and jarring when a police car pulls up. Then the sudden realization that it’s you the policeman wants, and at that moment it feels like really big stuff.
A few weeks ago, while driving to my gym to try out a new class called “dance blast,” I missed my usual spot for the left turn. Continuing up the road, I followed the car ahead of me, and then made the turn. Out of nowhere, a policeman appeared and the car that I had followed had also been stopped by the road. My stomach clenched when he asked for my driver’s license and insurance. As for my profuse apologies, well, they were going nowhere. The policeman was having none of it as he kept on writing, not once looking up at me. He then went back into his car to finish the dreaded deed. After waiting what felt like an eternity in 90° weather, he finally returned to my car and handed over a big fat ticket. “You gave me expired car insurance. You can come to court with the updated insurance,” and with a terse wave of the hand he motioned for me to move along.
Already late for the class and queasy from the encounter and heat, I almost turned around to move in the opposite direction towards home to lick my wounds and watch the cooking channel. But, after thinking twice about it, I decided that move would only make me feel worse, so I joined the last row in the class already in session. Barely moving for the first few minutes, it was hard listening to the directions when the sting of the ticket and the image of the policeman pulling me over were so fresh in my mind.
Slowly that all started fading as the upbeat cha cha music seeped through and took hold. Liz, the instructor, demonstrated the 1, 2, 3, steps that looked so easy and effortless, but her joy was infectious as she cheered us on. “C’mon ladies, move those hips!” Before long, I was dancing my own version of the samba, cha cha, and other dance moves. Images of that ticket and the unrelenting policeman were now long gone, and I was sweating and having so much fun. It was liberating, not caring that my moves were less than stellar.
That’s a far cry from when I first signed up and was handed a pamphlet of exercise classes. Like a kid in a candy shop with an assortment of classes, I didn’t know which classes were best suited to my needs: Pilates, body sculpt, yoga, Zumba, or Latin funk? In those first few classes, I was overwhelmed, self-conscious, and surrounded on all sides by toned and perky gym enthusiasts. Not only were they fit, but they looked snappy in Spandex and neon-colored exercise clothing compared to my drab sweats. I gravitated to Pilates because the movements are slower with a focus on strengthening core muscles; there’s also less jumping around, which is bad for my tricky knees and back. But, from the prone position on the mat, my cramped and shaky leg extensions were no match for the others and I had to resist the urge to give up.
In LJ’s Pilates class, things began to look up. She modeled the positions and importance of deep breathing, good form, and reinforced slow and incremental growth. After the first class, she took the time to get to know me and we discussed positive gym attitude. LJ talked about how the gym can be a metaphor for life in that you have to honor your own body, and not compare yourself to others. Finally, some much-needed pep talk. “You’re here, and that’s really good. Just don’t give up, and keep coming,” she said.
I kept coming, and still try not to look over my shoulder, by focusing on my own baby-step progress. Along the way, I’ve learned to modify some exercises or just simply take a few minutes for a break if needed. And when there’s an uncomfortable twinge or pain, I stop that particular movement. After all, I’m not training for the Olympics. Working out at the gym is a part of important me time, a place to sweat the stress, and yes…have fun.
People join gyms for a variety of reasons: mainly to work out, get fit, and maintain healthy weight control. It’s also a great place to socialize and meet new people from different walks of life. Behind all the spandex, there are often complex lives, individuals, and interesting stories. In a yoga class, one woman told me that she credits yoga for “saving her” after her nasty divorce. Someone else said that exercise helps her deal with the stress of caring for her sick relative. Vivian, who is a “cross trainer” and goes to a variety of classes, said: “I’m careful and won’t do an exercise that may hurt me, because my goal is to be able to come back tomorrow.”
As for that ticket, I’m doing what I need to do and paying up. I’m also careful about turns when driving en route to my gym and elsewhere. Hopefully, I’ve learned an important lesson.
Esther Kook is a Teaneck resident. She’s a reading teacher, tutor, and freelance writer.
By Esther Kook
