Believe it or not I can be very shy. I'm afraid to meet new people and I don't like strangers staring at me. Maybe this is insecurity, but whatever the case may be, you would think this would deter me from stepping outside of my comfort zone. But this is actually not the case. I like to go new places and see fantastic things. If no one wants to go with me I will go by myself. I’m crazy that way.
So when I called the gymnastics studio to register my son and learned they had an adult tumbling class, I was curious.
"Do they take people who have never done gymnastics before?"
"Of course. Adults take this class all the time. It's great!"(foreshadowing alert-gymnastics people say the word 'great' a lot but it means something very different than what I think it means)
My mind whirred with possibilities. When I was a little girl my friend took gymnastics. She invited me to come to class with her and I went one time. I will never forget the foam pit. I remember diving into with ecstasy. For some reason this memory was so glowingly wonderful that I promptly sang, "Sign me up!"
I spent the next two days thinking about little else than how wonderful that class was going to be. I invited friends on Facebook and arrived 15 minutes early. I wasn't nervous or scared or worried. I simply thought, "Woo hoo!!"
So when they directed me down to the gym and I got to meet the other "adults" I was pretty jazzed. I envisioned 30 or 40-something year old men and women in leotards. Instead I met perky 20-somethings in short shorts. Evidently, the other "adults" that take tumbling are little more than children who have been gymnasticking(yes I made that word up) their whole lives.
The girls were so sweet. They told me their names but I've forgotten. I just remember their tiny waists and bare legs. They were stretching and there was no instructor yet.
"We're stretching." They said, as if I didn't notice.
"Uh, okay." I said.
"You should do what we do." They nodded in unison.
"Uh, okay." I said. Then I got about the business of bobbing and weaving while trying to stretch my legs for 10 minutes. This was decidedly not exciting.
Then the instructor arrived. "Hi, I'm Gene!" He was a middle-aged man with a large belly and did not appear to have ever done gymnastics in his life. But he was a jolly sort of fellow and I liked him immediately.
Thus began my lesson.
Evidently gymnastics does not start with summersaults, it begins with bridges. As in, "Margaret, do a bridge!"
"Um, excuse me?" I said.
One of the girls fell backwards and caught herself with her hands while her body was bent in an arch. I was intrigued. The second girl said, "You just kind-of fall into it."
I scratched my chin and saw a vision in my mind of me falling backwards into a loud *splat*. I thought to myself, "that's not going to happen" and then realized I accidentally said it out loud.
The instructor told me to lay down on my back and push up. I did. "Beautiful!" he said. Gene was very complimentary, although I am certain I looked similar to a beached porpoise flopping around aimlessly on blue foam beach as opposed to the lithe and graceful swan I wished to be.
The girls then taught me why gymnasts have super toned bodies. They are masters at self-torture. In between every fun mat exercise, think summersaults and more bridges, they do "floor work." Floor work includes crunches with your legs raised(that was the easy one), rocking(I told them my bottom half was too big for this) and pushups.
"How many?" I asked innocently.
"20." They said in unison while sounding like peppy cheerleaders.
I thought to myself, "That's not gonna happen." And then realized I accidentally said it out loud.
Gene said, "Just do as many as you can."
I was determined to do 20 pushups but again, my bottom half is too big and I barely managed to eke out 10. I silently congratulated myself that having produced 3 children from my body, these girls knew little of real pain and thus I was stronger than them even if I couldn't do 20 pushups.
Next we walked over to the mat and Gene asked me if I had ever done a cartwheel before. I chuckled. "Yeah, when I was like 10."
He smiled, obviously unamused by my snarkiness. "Go for it."
I looked at the matt and cocked my head to the left. Then I cocked my head to the right. Then I twisted around trying to figure out how best to approach the matt without breaking my elbows.
"Keep your arms straight." Gene said. Notice the pudgy middle aged man did not demonstrate a cartwheel for me. He left that to the girls.
I managed to complete one cartwheel and they all exclaimed happily, "That was great!" as if I had just completed a perfect pike. Then each girl took turns doing round-offs with flips added in for fun while I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Unfortunately, as I was maneuvering around the mat on my wobbly legs, I slipped and fell into the foam pit. I very quickly realized it was not the happy place I remember it to be. I felt kind-of like a toothpick in a freshly baked angel food cake. I was just stuck there, sticking out of the top. I wasn't really embarrassed, but it was certainly going to be challenging to climb out of it, which is, I suppose, the purpose of the pit. As I attempted to climb out I felt something like a hippopotamus rolling and snorting and trying desperately to get a foothold on a muddy riverbank. As Gene and the girls coached me I was determined not to ask for help. Eventually I got enough leverage to push out. I'll admit it wasn't pretty but I got it done.
Gene said, "Okay! Now let's try a handstand." I looked around and said, "Are you talking to me?" He just laughed. I did the same routine as the cartwheel, cocking my head to the side and twisting. He said, "Just keep your arms straight." So I cleared my throat and went for it. I really don't know what I was thinking would happen, but imagine my surprise when Gene grabbed my legs and held me there. Eventually he let me down. The girls exclaimed, "That was great!" And it was then that I realized… "great" means "we laugh at your petty attempts at gymnastics, oh fat middle-aged woman!"
Gene said, "Let's do that again." I gulped like a dying fish and tried again. Gene held my legs while the girls did crunches and push-ups. Still, I was very proud when on my third attempt I completed one handstand without Gene hugging my tree trunk legs. I quickly fell on my back and cracked my rumpus but that's not the point. I shot the girls and evil look that said, "Do not tell me 'that was great' or I will push YOU into the foam pit and kick you in the head while you try to climb out.
After a few more crunches or pushups, I can't remember which, Gene said, "Let's try those cartwheels again. At this point I was feeling pretty confident. I might be slower than the girls but I was keeping up pretty well for my first class. After all, I am in pretty good shape. I work out a lot, and even though I'm a little rounder around the middle, I'm not afraid to try cartwheels. So I proudly pranced down the matt and did a few more cartwheels. But on the last one I felt something go horribly wrong in my left hip and when I landed the truth hit me like a balance beam to the noggin, "I just tore something."
Now I expected Gene to say something like, "Oh, Dear! You better stop. Maybe you should go lay down in a corner. Or better yet, you should just go home. You made a good effort." But that is not what Gene said. What Gene actually said was, "Oh, just go stretch it out over there."
I am certain that I pouted. As I was pouting my way over to the stretching place the girls took turns flipping down the mat like regular Olympic athletes while Gene shouted, "You need more space between those flips!"
And I think I'll just stop there. Try as I might, the tear in my hip did not "stretch out". I finally had to tell Gene that I was done trying to be a gymnast. He encouraged me to come back and said the instructors would be completely willing to help me accomplish my goals, whatever they were.
"I don't have any goals." I said.
Gene frowned. I may as well have told him I liked to poke babies in the eyes for fun.
"Well, I'm not sure what we can do for you then."
One of the girls said, "Do you have to work tomorrow?" I nodded and then she said, "Oh, that's not good. You probably won't be able to move in the morning." I did not poke her in the eye but I was sorely tempted. I left the gym in a fairly sad state of mind.
When I arrived home my husband was waiting for me. He met me out in the front yard. "Well, did you survive?" Evidently he knew I was going to die and didn't warn me. He knows how completely crazy I am whereas I live in a state of complete denial.
"It was 'great!'" I said, and hobbled up the front stairs like the old woman I am.
The moral of this story is very simple, 39 year old women who love gymnastics but have never actually done gymnastics would be wise to stick to something more realistic, like watching Youtube videos of gymnasts rather than trying to actually be one. The sad thing is, I probably could have made a lot of money videotaping this exercise in foolishness. The clip of me falling in the foam pit would have been an instant classic!
