Saturday morning found me at the gym, which was a reasonable place for it to look.
Weekends are good for real workouts, a long cardio session on Saturday and one of my Workout Of Death routines on Sunday, as opposed to the quick weekday sessions I manage to squeak in when I’m not “writing,” which sounds more impressive than “sleeping in”.
This past Saturday, I was there for an instructional clinic for a suspension training workout called TRX.
I’m sure I looked just like this. Kind of.
You might be wondering what TRX stands for. So did I and that is where my tale begins.
Earlier in the week, I’d checked out the company website and didn’t see the answer there, so as the instructor reviewed her notes, asked if there were any questions before we started, and — assuming there would be none – began her introductory comments, I asked what TRX stands for.
She glanced at her notes and, finding nothing there, looked at me with an expression that conveys a different three-letter acronym.
You know the one. It starts with W, followed by T and. . .you know.
I know what that one stands for.
I resolved to work harder to compensate for the slow leak in my cognitive / verbal filter — one of the many glamorous side effects of being a woman of a certain age — because she kind of looked like she could kick my gluteus maximus and I had just given her good reason to do so. Besides, I already stood out like an Amazon Worrier in this class of exactly three students.
If you’re like my lovely daughter, you’re thinking what she said: ”Only three students! A small class! That’s good!”
I just adore her cheerful, optimistic, “yay, you!” nature, which is why I felt bad snapping back, “No. NOT good.”
It’s ok that I was snappish. Today is her third day of law school. No doubt by Day 3 she’s learned that the law can be a snappish profession. It was like homework.
The other two students in the class were about 5’1.5″ and 5’2″, respectively.
The first, weighing in at maybe 75 pounds, appeared to be one of the many super fit ladies I suspect live in the yoga room, emerging occasionally for half a piece of arugula and a bottle of Perrier. Think Natalie Portman in Black Swan.
The other was one of the gym’s Pilates instructors, now in training to become a TRX instructor. Think Mary Lou Retton in her prime.
I mean this in the most complimentary way. Together and individually they were the vision of femininity, elegance, grace, strength, and beauty.
And then there was me.
The middle-aged tall girl with a 5’8″ wing span, trying with little success to recover from an injury that’s kept me from doing anything too taxing for about a year and a half and tragically losing the battle with metabolism that is yet another glamorous side effect of being a woman of a certain age.
What was I doing there?
That’s a question that would come to me repeatedly over the coming 90 minutes, beginning just about the time the instructor got to the part in her notes explaining that TRX was developed by Navy SEALs who wanted to keep fit but had to travel lightly and leave little footprint.
Engage filter. Do not giggle, thought my woman-of-a-certain-age brain.
If it walks like a duck . . .
Why was I stifling a giggle?
Because she said “footprint,” instantly focusing my attention on her webbed-foot shoes, the kind that only a few days before I had read about on this fine blog.
There I’d boastfully commented that, although I’d seen them on tourists around town, they had not yet appeared in my gym.
And now here they were.
Honestly, sometimes it’s like the Universe wants me to giggle, maybe just to see a rock-solid fitness instructor kick my gluteus maximus.
But. Wait.
Did she say “Navy SEALs”?
What am I doing here??
Her presentation brings us to the part of her notes that explains that Navy SEAL Randy Something was one of the developers who fashioned this equipment from parachutes and rubber rafts or. . . something.
I don’t remember the details because at this point it occurs to me that maybe the R in TRX is for Randy. Maybe T and X were Randy’s SEAL buddies: Tom . . . or Trevor . . . or Tex. . . or Tiffany . . . and . . . Xavier.
Snappish Disclaimer: Tiffany, Randy, and Xavier are figments of my imagination. Charles Dickens and Dorothy Parker are not.
My mind wanders to how many Navy SEALs might be named Xavier (engage filter – do not giggle!). I wonder if his parents envisioned a Navy SEAL future for him when they gave him the name Xavier and I decide to add them to my Imaginary Dinner Party guest list to ask them personally.
I think I’ll seat Xavier’s dad next to Dorothy Parker and his mom next to Charles Dickens and although one obvious place for Xavier himself might be next to Jesus, given Xavier’s military background it might be a more interesting choice to put him next to the Dalai Lama.
Who knows? Maybe he and Randy and Tiffany were in some remote, undisclosed location in Tibet when they came up with this TRX idea.
Eventually my mind fades back to reality, where I have probably missed something important.
She’s trying to find a spot for me where my arms and legs won’t fling into someone else or the wall. I end up next to Mary Lou because, let’s face it, when she becomes an instructor she’s going to have people like me in her class and she might as well get used to it.
If you’re like me, you dread attending professional development training because of that one person who asks, “What’s a mouse?” or, “How do you save a file?” and you’re going to be the one who has to show them. Take that and put it in straps suspended from an overhead bar and that was Mary Lou’s particular nightmare on this Saturday morning.
A future Navy SEAL engages core muscles.
We’re moving along and I try to forget about Tiffany and Randy and Xavier, the three of them holed up in some undisclosed location in Tibet and one of them — probably Randy (you know how he is) – thinking, “Hey, I know. Let’s make a Jolly Jumper out of this parachute and raft,” because it’s just now occurring to me . . . as the instructor gets to the part about how you can buy this equipment and hang it in a doorway in your own home . . .that TRX equipment reminds me of the Jolly Jumpers that were popular ways to keep babies busy long ago.
That’s when Natalie or Mary Lou asks how much the home equipment costs and the instructor says something like $250, which is apparently way more than my cognitive filter can fathom, so I helpfully suggest, “Or you could just get an old parachute and rubber raft and make your own.”
Again, the instructor looks at me, her compassionate patience struggling against that other-acronym look and I want to say, “I know! Can you believe I just said that out loud? What is the matter with me?” Only now the filter has engaged.
I kind of want to kick my own gluteus maximus.
I’m not enjoying being a woman of a certain age. It’s like I don’t know myself anymore.
She continues describing the equipment and informs us that the handle things are not called stirrups because that’s an unpleasant association for women. I suspect this is Tiffany’s contribution to TRX and I thank her for it.
They’re called . . . something else, but now that the instructor has said “stirrups,” that’s all I can think of.
Poor Tiffany.
Things are starting to progress and we arrive at some sideways contortion where I decide that it’s in Mary Lou’s best interest if I move over to the side where the only thing in harm’s way is the wall.
Soon I hit my stride and I’m rowing and planking and doing some sort of triceps thing that is so much harder but so much better than triceps free weights. I know this because my triceps are pleading for mercy.
When the instructor asks what we think, I cheerfully and optimistically offer, “It’s kind of fun!” ( my daughter came by her ”yay, you” nature honestly) and Mary Lou joins in, “. . . in a sick and painful way,” because, let’s face it, she can say anything now that I’ve set the bar.
Yay, you, Drew Brees. Yay, you!
I’m allowed to sit out of mountain climbing because
- I want to be careful with my lower back; and
- I am not Drew Brees; and
- Mary Lou and Natalie are way too good at this.
In fact, that’s what the instructor tells me: “No, really Hipster. You’re doing great. They shouldn’t be able to do those things in an introductory class.”
I think she’s feeling guilty about the other-acronym look. But I’m fine with it. I’ll take my “yay, you’s” any way I can get them.
Just when I’m feeling like this is pretty cool and I may start coming to class regularly, she says, “Ok, now that you know the moves, let’s put on some music and do the workout.”
Wha-huh?!?
That wasn’t the workout?
What am I doing here?
What part of Navy SEAL did I not pick up on as a clue to exit the premises about an hour ago?
~~~
All of this was a half-bottle of Advil ago and I’m feeling better now. It was indeed fun, in an intense and excruciating way, and I’m looking forward to telling my CrossFit-loving friends about it.
The instructor knew what she was doing and was incredibly patient with me. She even high-fived me and said I was a rock star, but she did it in that way that you do to the last group of kids to cross the finish line in the potato sack races at field day.
Still, I’ll take my “rock stars” any way I can get them and I do think I’m going to try it again, even if it means finding an old parachute and rubber raft and hanging out — literally – at home.
He’s not really a hippie. Or a hipster.
I’d say I feel your pain Hippie, but then I’d need to go to the gy…..gy…….nope, can’t even type it.
You’re still a rock star ::high five!::
One of my trade show industry friends wears those…things….on his feet when working a show. Yes, we log many miles each day onsite but…ugh, unacceptable! Especially since he’s wearing them with a dress shirt and trousers. Those things belong in the same category as Crocs or Uggs and should be illegal, even in a gym. My middle aged filter wouldn’t have been able to stop my mouth from commenting on them.
Sounds like trade shows can be classified as a barefoot sport (see Stephen Kelly’s post).
The instructor said this was her first time wearing them and they weren’t good for TRX because your feet slip out of the Things That Are Not Called Stirrups.
You aren’t a Navy Seal. You’re not a Hippie. What/who are you?!
At least you are looking out for your daughter, throwing homework her way after only three days of law school.
In other news, a new crossfit gym opened near my house. I’ll not trespass. I’ve learned enough from you. Thank you, thank you for the head’s up.
My son and one of the “boys” next door (Chip) both love CrossFit and Insanity. Chip has invited me to go, which is sweet. I don’t think he knows that I’m not really a teenager.
I would simply be tempted to strangle myself with the apparatus. Anything to avoid the humiliation of watching my aging flesh contort. I bought running/shuffling shoes today and that’s about all the brutality I can take. I might even put them on and run/shuffle. But good on you, girl! You do rock! I guarantee you Mary Lou and Natalie were on Advil and double Martinis when they got home.
I think they’re strangle-proof, but I might have missed that part while I was pairing up dinner party guests. You’d have to put the one Non Stirrup through the other Non Stirrup, spin around three times and say “Schwarzenegger” or something. It’s a very high-tech workout.
Double Martini’s. That’s their secret!
Reading this, I’m thinking I need to get back to something. I usually don’t anything with straps though. May have to pass on this, but I applaud you for doing it and wanting to go back. I’m sure it will easier the second time around. “That wasn’t the workout?” (ha ha) I can just see it. Way to go for doing it!
Thank you.
Seriously, I was so proud of making it through it and I was stunned when she headed for the music.
It’s my understanding that that shit’ll kill you.
But you’ll look totally hot in your casket.
That’s the goal!
Keep going… It’ll make you stronger. Kudos!
That which makes me stronger might also kill me.
Thanks!
You have to go back this saturday and say even more. If you can make someone’s head pop, you win the class!
I’m pretty sure you are a Seal though. Do you have the shirt?
Not yet, but I think it might be a birthday surprise. Do you think it’ll clash with my CIA baseball cap?
P.S. Sorry you were spammed.
I’m sorry…did you say that workout took 90 minutes? You’re putting my 45-min workout to shame.
It was the last 30 minutes that I was feeling for four days. I think (hope) the regular classes are an hour.
I think the 3 letter word with W and T she was referring to was “wit”. Which is what you have. Which rhymes with “grit”, which you truly have if you can do that shiz for 90 minutes. I’m totally phoning it in at the gym nowadays …must…get…motivated!
Aw, thank you.
It troubles me a little that I have this much Gaga knowledge, but that “phoning” image makes me think you kinda have a Gaga thing going on today.
That sounds like quite a workout. Much more challenging than simply walking the Sheltie. However, he never gives me any “lip,” and his adoring expression reminds me daily that, to him, I am a rock star. There are compensations for not going to the gym!
I’ve been wanting to do a gym update for a while, one piece of it being how mine is like Cheers. I was away for too many weeks and when I went back, the person at the front desk said, “There she is!” and it felt like home. Just like when the dog greets you at the door, ecstatic that you’ve come home again, just like you did every single other time you left.
I’m seriously considering moving to a different place. Leaving my gym behind would be like leaving the dog behind, which , as you know, is inconceivable.
That’s it. I’m determined. I’m going to start using all that equipment sitting right across my complex in its own special room. It’s free, after all.
But first, I’m going to take off the ten danged pounds that still need to come off. I mean – if I’m going to start actually moving, it would be good to have a little less to move. And I’m going to have to build up my stamina by climbing stairs around here or something. After all, the workout room is all glass windows, and it’s right next to the mail boxes and the pool. If I’m going to put myself front and center, I need to be in shape before I do.
It’s like cleaning house before the housekeeper comes.
Or washing your hair before you go to the salon. I know a woman who does that. I think all that effort to get a comment in worked off a bunch of calories. You’re on your way!
Would a parachute and a rubber raft help me get a comment in here? Better check your spam file again. Apparently I’ve offended the great WP gods.
Maybe you should rethink all the profanity. (kidding!). I’m sorry — I’ll check. . . .
OMG … are those TOESHOES??? hehe
What a coincidence. In the past month or so I’ve also really gotten into the TRX workout. I think it’s a lot of fun, and I nice alternative to some of the other stuff I do in the gym, which lately has gotten boring. Keep with it … it gets easier!
Fun essay, btw!
I knew it. You’re a rock star…and not the kind that comes in last in the potato sack races!
The class is offered at a good time (early Saturday morning), which is better than the 11 a.m. Pilates class. I love Pilates, but 11 am is the middle of the day.
I don’t remember whether I left this in my ridiculously long reply to the music question, but I continue to struggle with push ups. Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” is the only thing that gets me through them. The upper body TRX exercises actually felt more effective and almost fun. I’ll keep at it until they ARE fun, darn it.
Reading this post all I could think of was the Sex in the City episode with Samantha and the swing. Sounds like is was a similar workout…except. You weren’t naked…were you?
Nah, that’s the advanced class.
Nobody has made me snort as much by reading a post as you have.
PS – you won an award!
http://diaryofamadgayman.wordpress.com/2012/08/24/bitches-love-awards/
Until now I have had no aspirations of writing a bestseller, but with your comment, I have a sudden wish to do so, if only to use your comment as one of the slugs on the book jacket.
Seriously, though, this was such a nice and unexpected thing to read, especially with so many much funnier writers hanging around here. Thank you VERY much….and for the award, too!
You, my dear, are very welcome and thank you for making me laugh so much. Seriously, you should bundle up your best posts and release them in a book because you are a great writer. I can relate, everything is written so well, and I am given great visuals. You are amazing.
Wow, thank you again. When I sent away my $2.50 and 3 box-tops for a Frame-able Comment, I was worried I might get something like “Drink your Ovaltine.” This is far beyond my wildest expectations.
I look at my weights and exercise machine every day.
And you do it with that Rock Star look, which is why we’re so fond of you, Carl. High five.
I’m automatically suspicious of anyone doing an acronym workout.
Now that you mention it, I wonder what yoga stands for. It just has that hipster-y, used-to-be-an-acronym-but-dropped-the-caps-and-periods-to-be-cool feel to it. Dropped-the-caps has a thug-y feel to it. I’m out of hyphens now. . . .
I think I got a good core workout session out of your post. Laughing hysterically is great for the abs!
Thank you ever so kindly. Can you imagine my narration of a cricket match? Me neither.
(Don’t tell anyone – but I have toe shoes. There’s awesome. Ugly as hell, but great. The trend is definitely about over with them, now that people are wearing them with no idea why, and for no good reason… but I love them.)
So, I have faux Tevas I use for rowing and other things where I know my feet will get wet but I couldn’t find them last night because I don’t know why maybe there was a crazy Teva party sometime and someone took them by accident because they’re “faux” and no one would take “faux” Tevas from a crazy Teva party on purpose but whatever it was they weren’t here and we were going kayaking so my daughter lent me her water shoes which are essentially the same just without the toes — sort of like the mitten version of toe shoes — and they were surprisingly comfortable and you wear them, which means they have to be pretty cool. I don’t know why, but I just felt overwhelmed by the urge to write a run-on sentence.