A
few days ago, I saw
a
man
rollerblading
while pushing a stroller
with a golden retriever trailing
behind on a leash. The spectacle
looked like an American Ninja
Warrior audition. As I watched
the feat from across the street, I
considered the skill of this man
completing his Saturday morning
to-do list while balancing on
eight wheels.
In that moment, I came to two
conclusions. First, his dedication
to exercise seemingly convinced
him that rollerblading while
responsible for the livelihood
of a baby and a dog was a good
idea. And secondly, my own
coordination will likely never
surmount to the athleticism
required to complete such an
act. Not that I am disappointed, I
can certainly think of a lot better
things to do with my weekend
than fall face first on a pothole-
ridden road.
I
have
never
categorized
myself as naturally athletic. You
know, one of those people who
can effortlessly recall their days
as a three-sport athlete and win
Spikeball the first time they play.
The one sport I played in high
school was swimming, which I
had grown up participating in.
And like anything, once you spend
10 years practicing something,
it is reasonable to expect your
ability to hover around at least
average.
The only biological evidence
I have of my athletic ability was
when a nurse told me that my low
blood pressure suggested I spent
a lot of time holding my breath. I
guess swimming with your face
in the water for a decade does
something to your body beyond
pruney fingertips.
So I don’t have the blood of a
track star. But I did not need a
doctor to tell me that. The sheer
number of times I have stubbed
my toe while walking around
the house or didn’t catch the
beach ball during icebreakers is
probably enough empirical proof.
My lack of natural athletic
ability was confirmed in seventh-
grade gym class — arguably, an
experience specifically designed
to test the resilience of fragile
13-year-old
self-esteem.
I
dreaded having to don the cotton
uniform and break a sweat to the
Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga
dance party anthems found on
any middle schooler’s iPod Nano
in 2012. The crown jewel of my
gym teacher’s curriculum was
the track and field unit. We were
required to complete every event
for a grade. I wish I was joking.
We did everything from shotput
to relays to high jump. The only
event not on the agenda was pole
vault. It apparently was a liability
to catapult grossly untrained kids
into the sky with the momentum
of a pole.
The capstone of the unit was
the
100-meter
hurdles.
The
big kahuna of middle school
physical education. A true test
of athleticism to see who could
master the technique of leaping
over a barrier
after
just
a
15-minute
demonstration.
Have at it kids.
I
panicked.
My
body
did
not like to leave
the
ground.
The only time
I
caught
air
was diving into
the pool. The
prickly
track
did not qualify
as a soft-landing
surface. I braced
myself and ran
towards
the
first hurdle with
no clue of how
I was going to
clear it. I lunged
and
somehow
found myself on
the other side
unscathed.
I
was surprised, but this confidence
quickly evaporated when I looked
up and was reminded of the other
hurdles ahead. Mind you, the
entire gym class is watching from
the sidelines with my gym teacher
holding a stopwatch ready to
record my time. What happened
next is one of those middle school
moments locked in my mind
with the same clarity as Rebecca
Black’s “Friday” lyrics. I knocked
down the next nine hurdles. Let’s
just say, I did not try out for the
track and field team.
After the hurdle
incident,
my relationship with athletics
was reserved for the pool and
morning practice weight room
sessions where I would bring
flashcards
to
“study”
before
school. That remained the extent
of my relationship with exercise
upon graduating high school.
However, when you go to
college you realize just how many
things you do not know how to do
in life. For me, the top of the list
was working out. I tried running,
but my water raised joints could
not handle the smashing on the
pavement. Most runs I would find
myself regretting not turning
around earlier and end up with
resorting to a run-walk that made
me look like a limping kangaroo.
I sometimes tried to power walk
and listen to a podcast, which
worked out well for a while until I
got annoyed with the headphone
cord and didn’t want to invest in
Bluetooth. I even briefly tried to
establish a gym workout routine,
but soon realized I had no clue
how to organize a workout. I
tried downloading apps, googling
exercises, setting a timer, but it
was all too complicated and I
never pushed myself enough for
my heart rate to go up.
It is still a mystery to me how
all those people at the gym with
their “in the zone” face and
flawless
transitions
between
exercises know what they are
doing. Do they count in their
head? How do they decide which
exercise to do next? Have they
just been doing the same workout
since 10th grade? These are all
questions I would like answers to.
I soon realized that I was going
to need a little more hand holding
if I wanted to release endorphins.
This is how I found myself at a
step aerobics class. Yep, a class
of 55-year-old women taught me
how to work out. I understand
how
ridiculous
this
sounds
coming from a 19-year-old girl.
We are supposed to be young
and agile and do yoga four days a
week in athleisure attire.
At first, I truly was a fish out of
water. The thing about gyms is no
one ever tells you the protocol. It
was trial and error until I learned
the latest you could arrive to
still snag a spot in the prime real
estate of the back row and which
weights I could sustain for the
entire five minutes of the remixed
version of Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.”
The class was certainly not
sexy like Soul Cycle. And I was
definitely not part of the inner
circle of regulars who would share
recipes and save spots for each
other. But there was something
about awful America’s Top 40
music playlists. The instructors
on their air traffic controller style
headsets yelling during mountain
climbers to “pretend there is
a wine glass in front of you.”
And the mutual judgement that
would incur when the occasional
male dropped into the class and
put three risers under his step
without realizing the class is an
hour of nonstop cardio. I was
there for the bad music and sweat.
It was incredibly motivating. No
wonder this echelon of suburban
moms and grandmothers were so
fit, they figured out something no
one ever teaches you in gym class
— athleticism isn’t always about
proving yourself. It is enough to
show up wearing an old T-shirt
and mimic an instructor jump
around a step for an hour.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018 // The Statement
2B
I Bet Your Grandma Can Work Out Harder Than You:
What I learned from the step aerobic generation
BY SHANNON ORS, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
ILLUSTRATION BY MOLLY WU
Managing Statement Editor:
Brian Kuang
Deputy Editors:
Colin Beresford
Jennifer Meer
Editor in Chief:
Alexa St. John
Photo Editor:
Amelia Cacchione
Designer:
Elizabeth Bigham
Managing Editor:
Dayton Hare
Copy Editors:
Elise Laarman
Finntan Storer
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | OCTOBER 31, 2018