Lagree

I used to be in great shape. I hiked. I walked everywhere. I went to spinning class. Sometimes all in the same day. At one point I considered myself the kind of person who said things like, “Let’s just take the stairs!” Recently, however, life events have transitioned me into what I call “emotionally athletic.” Physically? Less so. But the brain doesn’t update its software. In my mind, I’m still hiking four miles and then casually strolling uphill to a coffee shop for a reward latte.

The first unsettling realization: I was the oldest and roundest person in the room. By a margin. Every time the instructor made an age-related joke, she drifted toward me and said, “You know what I mean, right?”

Sweetheart. Your nostalgic references are from 2016. I have socks older than you.

She told me to watch the woman next to me—Melanie—who was on class 250, meaning she either started in utero or this machine raised her. We began with “simple” leg exercises. One foot on stable ground, the other on a plate that slides. The goal is to control the movement with core strength.

Reader, I do not have a core. I have a suggestion of a core.

As I watched my extended leg and the entire left side of my body slowly slide toward another zip code, I glanced over at Melanie. She was performing something between a split and a ballet audition, then calmly reassembling her dancer limbs like a well-oiled Transformer. Meanwhile, I was negotiating with gravity and whispering, “Please don’t let me die like this.”

After retrieving my wandering extremities, I decided the safest position for everyone involved was on my knees. The machine has these flimsy rubber balls on sticks to help with balance. The instructor kept bringing them to me, clearly thinking balance was my only issue.

To prove that balance was merely one item on a long and distinguished list, I stood up—now slick with the sweat of a woman determined to personally season the equipment—and grabbed the balls. One launched into Melanie mid-squat (she gave me the evil eye while sliding low enough for her glutes to kiss the floor), and the other shot to the ground like it was making a break for freedom.

We finished with a “refreshing” coconut water towel. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wipe my face, mop the machine, or use it as traction to pull myself upright. Melanie didn’t even unwrap hers. She probably reabsorbs moisture through confidence alone.

After class, I pretended I could walk normally until I reached the lobby, where I promptly discovered that my legs had been replaced with overcooked linguine. There was a tiny coat hanging beside mine. A woman with a small child walked out, so I kindly called after her that she’d forgotten her daughter’s coat.

At that exact moment, Melanie floated out of the studio and delicately plucked the coat from my hands using two fingers.

“That’s mine.”

Of course it is. Of course you are also child-sized.

I only live half a mile from the studio, but I drove because I had an appointment afterward. It took everything I had to shuffle to my car. Whatever street cred I once possessed was now face-down in the parking lot. There was a brief, spiritual moment where I wondered which of my joints would successfully snap back into place by morning—and which would require a priest.

Update: It’s the next day. Certain parts of my body are still in negotiations with gravity.

I’ve booked a private class next week.

I’ve also pre-arranged stretcher service to my vehicle.