Last week, I took a step of faith into a world of the unknown for straight men – I joined an aerobics class at the gym.
Okay, so I generalized. But that was how I felt as my friend, Lisa, dragged me in; kicking and screaming.
Now I know there are some of you who are probably wondering what the fuss is all about. You see, for a man who prides himself on easily being able to bench 170lbs, the gym has always been a temple at which my biceps and abs worshipped at. The one place where men can let loose their testosterone (cavemen-style) before going back to society and function normally again (businessmen- or husband-style).
And my perception of this sacred site was about to be altered because of a foolish wager I had made and lost a couple of weeks ago.
In my mind, I had a picture of a sweaty class dressed in multi-coloured tights (striped; definitely mismatched) and headbands with forced smiles plastered on their faces as they stepped up and down aerobic boards to Debbie Gibson’s “Listen to your Heart”.
Basically, the thought of spending 50 minutes in something akin to a Richard Simmons video was, to say the least, daunting.
I freeze up as the entrance loomed ahead. This was it – the moment of truth. Through that entrance I’d leave my masculinity and walk in. Making a beeline for the back of the room (where hopefully I’d be unnoticeable by anybody), my path was abruptly changed with a swift jerk of my arm courtesy of Lisa.
My heart did a double-beat as she escorted me all the way to the front of the class. Horrors.
“You can see the instructor’s actions clearer in front, dumbo!” Lisa hissed as she felt me tug my arm in protest. I didn’t want to see anything clearly. I just wanted to do go through the class as quickly and painlessly as possible, then go online and look for a gadget similar to the memory-erasing one in Men in Black.
But I was in for a big surprise. When I decided to take a brief peer around the room, I discovered that my fantasy was not to be. Almost half the class was made up of men. And by men, I’m not referring to the male cast of Will & Grace, but men who could’ve been plucked straight from the weights section.
Had society become so straight-laced that for men, aerobics was not so much classified effeminate as it was acceptable or, heaven forbid, popular?
I was still reeling from the initial revelation when a cheery voice brought me back to reality, destroying my other fantasy about having a Richard Simmons look-alike on stage.
In his place instead was a young instructor named Sam, who looked like she walked straight out of an Adidas catalogue – neither frizzy hair nor mismatched clothes. She did not have thick, white socks that went 3 inches above her ankles nor did she have a striped headband.
And best of all, she had a body that any woman (and I say this as a observant heterosexual guy) would want. From her actions and movements I could understand why any female would be motivated to attend her class.
And before I knew it, I was following her every move as she led the class through step-touches, push-ups and squats. 40 minutes later, and halfway through mambo track number 4, I actually caught myself enjoying it.
By the end of the class, I had learned two things.
Firstly, wearing a pair of shorts, not Bermudas, is highly recommended when attending an aerobics class. But more importantly, I learned (other than that the BodyAttack© set position is knees bent, arms on the side of your waist) that life has a funny way of slapping you in the face so rudely it can actually leave you reeling.
You see, I had walked in with the mindset that aerobics were for men who were - how do I say this - more in touch with their feminine side. And when I came out of it, I had already arranged to meet Lisa at the entrance next Wednesday.
My idea of the gym had not been altered a single bit (I still look upon it as a worthy source to expend energy), so what had changed?
It was my perception of myself. I was ashamed at how quick I had been to judge without even experiencing any bit of aerobics.
Yes, it may have just been something as simple as stereotyping men who enjoyed walking to the beat of retro music; but it made me wonder about the countless things I had passed off simply by saying, “Nah, it’s too boring” or “It’s probably not my idea of fun.”
And I know that I’m not the only person on the face of the earth to have done that. We are all guilty of judging too quickly; of being a critic quicker than a participant.
I mean, that is what life is about, isn’t it? Putting oneself outside the comfort zone to experience as much as possible before we get too old or sick to move?
As Lisa and I walked away form the room that afternoon, I mentioned how I had initially picture myself leaving my courage at the door when we entered. She laughed, before quipping, “You didn’t leave it at the door, hon; you brought it along with you when you went in.”
“How do you think you finished the whole class?” she asked, a knowing smile pasted on her round face. And as my puzzled frown unfolded into a knowing smile, I realised Lisa had taught me the simplest lesson: how not to judge.
So this week, I would like you all to do what I have done: resolve to get out of your cushy life. Try something that you never could picture yourself doing. And leave your judging hats at the door.
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and watched s3 (which wasn't too bad) and 28 weeks later (which was just bad).
