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

