If Sir Isaac Newton had ever seen me dance, he would have never written his first law. For that matter, if he had ever seen me in the gym, he might have had second thoughts. I am the antithesis of one-half of
I was thinking of
Referring to the hour as “dance” is a misnomer. It was really a cardiovascular workout and the black belt assured everyone that they did not have to follow her lead and could do as they pleased. What an out! I was never in step with anyone and was grateful that my wife had agreed to our hanging out in the back line (near the exit, I might add) rather than up front where the nimble bodies (and they were young girls) gyrated, contorted and twisted in front of a mirror. If I tried to do what some of those well exercised girls were doing, my body would snap into a thousand pieces.
Shamefully, I must admit to being a clock watcher. Twenty minutes to quitting time. Uhmm. Nineteen minutes to quitting time. Uhmm. Nineteen minutes to quitting time. A watched clock does not change time very quickly. Uhmm.
The clock situation at the dance studio is not as bad as it is at the gym where Paulette and I work out in some fashion just about every day but the Sabbath, that being a day of rest for our trainer (and we are grateful). Unlike the dance studio, which has only one clock, the gym has two. That’s not a problem when you’re working on your own because you can start and quit when you want.
But when we’re working with the trainer, it’s another matter. She feels contractually obligated to give us an hour’s worth of training beginning at 8 a.m. after 5 minutes of warming up on our own, and no matter what position you’re in, you can see a clock. Treadmill. You can see a clock. Weights. You can see a clock. The mirrors don’t help.
Look, we tell her, it’s OK. We can do 45 minutes. Oh, no, says the trainer, who is also the owner. You paid for an hour; you’ll get an hour.
Talk about customer service!
Paulette and I have figured out ways to ease the sessions with the trainer. Twenty minutes into training (I check the clock), my nose is running, and off I go to the tissue box. The only one used to be near the main entrance. Now there’s one closer—in the training area. I need water, and off I go to the water tank at the entrance. (Yes, I’ve thought about ducking out once there.) Then there’s always the excuse that we have to use the facilities.
I think the trainer is on to us, but given our ages, looks the other way. We are grateful. After all, it’s not boot camp. Been there, done that.
When the black-belt dance instructor tells us that we don’t have to do every step she does, and that if anything hurts, don’t do it, we are grateful. After a lifetime of passing judgment on people’s performances, I’m only too glad to have entered a non-judgmental phase of my life.
But what does this have to do with
As you may recall (and I looked this up in the Encyclopedia Britannica, not Wikipedia),