Tuesday, March 14, 2006

And...I'm Five Years Old

Like many Manhattanites, I try to temper my love of cupcakes, happy hour, and (5) Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches (in a row) with some quality gym time.

Today, I went to the Boot Camp class. Now, as a co-worker pointed out to me today, I seem to have an affinity for any exercise class involving violence. Kickboxing is another fave. I don't do yoga class. I don't do stretching class. I don't do abs class. But give me something to kick or punch, and I am SO there:

Co-worker: What other classes do you go to? "Kill, Die"?
Me: "Kill, Die" is a class I'd definitely be interested in.

So, back to Boot Camp: Our new instructor is a woman all of five feet two inches, she has crazy tats all over her shoulders, and her hair is cropped in a pixie cut. But she's super-sweet. Think a less scary version of Susan Powter. (Not that there's anything wrong with Susan. Stop the Insanity was actually an entertaining read. Did you know Susan is a former stripper?) Class consisted of a lot of simple, basic cardio with tons of reps: jumping jacks, lunges, tapping our toes on the plyo box. And I noticed myself doing jumping jacks and smiling. Prancing on and off the plyo box and smiling. Generally making a fool of myself and smiling. And I realized: How often do we, as adults, just get to jump up and down for a while to blow off steam? It's sort of fun. Next time I get yelled at at work, by my roommate, or by the Boyf, I'm just going to start prancing...and then wait for the men in white coats to knock on my door.

Maybe I should start looking at this as a possible health trend. This just in: Stress levels relieved by hula-hooping, brushing Barbies' hair, beaning other people with big rubber balls, and/or constructing elaborate battle scenes using green Army men.


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