Yesterday kicked off a new week of running for me (I had taken all of last week off after the half marathon) and while traversing our usual loop, Alison and I talked about how we really should add some cross training into our running routine. I suggested getting up early to watch Sit & Be Fit on PBS, which is always good for a giggle while enjoying your morning coffee in your pjs on the couch. But apparently she was thinking more along the lines of weight training. Or swimming. Or some other activity that actually requires you to sweat. And move. God, she is such a hard ass.
At any rate, she convinced me to come to the rec center with her this morning and participate in a class called Body Pump. The brochure describes the class as a high energy, high intensity workout that combines cardio drills, strength training, balance, coordination and core strength into a workout your body will love. Since I don't really possess balance, coordination or core strength, and my body has NEVER loved a workout, I wasn't sure this was the class for me. And the brochure also fails to mention that Body Pump is led by Satan. (The cute little blonde aerobic instructor facade didn't fool me). At the start of class, she set us up with a weight bar, various plates, a mat and a step and proceeded to bark orders for the next 55 minutes, repeating the phrase muscles only grow when they are under tension! as every muscle in our bodies eventually began to tremble, quiver, shake, and generally turn to jelly. Like the kind in donuts. That I could have been eating while watching Sit & Be Fit, if only I hadn't listened to Alison.
We ended the class two of my favorite activities: Push ups! and Lunges! (I thought adding the exclamations points might make them more desirable. But no. They are still undeniably sucky.) Now, on a normal day, I can't do a respectable push-up. But after 45 minutes of intense strength training, there was no way I could even push my sorry self off that mat. And on my toes, nonetheless. Miss Mephistopheles doesn't allow girly knee-push ups in her class, no sir! So I laid there, quietly hoping she wouldn't see me laying in a pool of my own sweat, and then dying a thousand deaths of embarrassment when she screeched Let's go, new girl! Push ups aren't over yet! I'm pretty sure flames shot from her eyes, too.
When it was all over, I was glad that Alison seemed as pooped as me. We both remarked that despite being able to run a half marathon, we are apparently sadly lacking any notable muscle strength. A fact that would be re-iterated to us all day, as simple tasks like blow drying your hair or lifting a gallon of milk made our muscles scream out in agony. Apparently, this is where the class also helps your diet as well: You'll be too sore to even lift a Twinkie.
We haven't yet decided if we'll go back for another class. I suppose I will ponder that while I go pop some ibuprofen, ice my quads, and watch those studs on Sit and Be Fit. (Yeah, I DVR'd it just in case!) Jelly donut, anyone? (ouch.)