As I write this, I’m shooting furtive glances to the gym bag sitting next to my left foot.
Tonight, it’s whispering to me in a smug little voice, tonight you return to the scene of the crime.
It was roughly around this time last week I logged onto my local gym’s website to check up on the class times for the evening ahead. Pre-caffeinated and slightly distracted, I jotted down my usual class time, and carried on working. Mistake #1.
Bouncing out of work and off to the gym, I was unusually optimistic about my standard Tuesday evening routine: half an hour jog on the treadmill, followed by a fairly relaxed 60 minute weights class. Strolling into the change rooms, I didn’t bother checking the class timetable mounted on the wall, because you know, I’m a regular. Mistake #2.
Shorts on, hair tied back, and nose deep into a rapid text conversation with my bestie, I pushed through the masses at the door of my gym class to secure my usual spot in the middle. As the digital clock on the wall ticked over to 6.30pm, I tucked my phone under the gym mat and looked up.
No one else had mats. WHY WERE THERE NO MATS? I froze. Mistake #3.
And that, my friends, was how I found myself smack bang in the middle of a nightmare: I was trapped in a Body Attack gym class and there was no way out.
‘Body Attack’: A high energy, aerobics-style gym class, that combines fast paced sequences with cardio based intervals.
The word ‘attack’ is not used lightly in the description: this class attacks you from every angle. It will attack your sense of co-ordination, it will attack your resilience in the face of utter humiliation, and it will attack a strange muscle on the top of your foot, one I was previously unaware existed.
(I believe that the instructor was also giving secret messages to the other expert attendees, who kept running at me as if the word “ATTACK!” was being screamed at them through a hidden earpiece.) FLY MY PRETTIES! MUSH! MUSH! IMPOSTER!
They hopped left, I hopped right. They jumped up as I was squatting down. They were clapping their hands in the air, whilst I waved mine uncertainly around my knees.
It was a complete and utter disaster that saw me not only embarrass myself to the nth degree, but also destroy their previously perfectly timed routines. Like a bull in a china shop, I was wreaking havoc on their careful system of one, two, step, clap.
I wasn’t doing any stepping or clapping. I was just doing a lot of waving in the air like one of these things:
To make matters worse, the instructor was actually insane. I kid you not, there was one point when he stood in the middle of the room, spinning around in circles on a crazed endorphin high, as we jogged around him in another circle like a deranged bird formation.