Thursday, February 2, 2012

Working out sucks when you're a mom

And not for the reasons you think.

It's the little known horror of the aerobics class. Jumping jacks are your bane. And if you're smiling or nodding, you already know what I'm about to talk about.

Let's start with this morning. It started out as many of my mornings do; dragging out of bed some 30 minute after the alarm went off (I know, I know, I'm working on that. My snooze button gets overused.) I took the kid to school, and raced to the gym to catch the first class of the morning. It's a boot camp class, one of those "who the heck KNOWS what's coming next" sorts of things. We ran, we lunged, we generally grunted and groaned.

Then, the instructor told us WE would pick the next set of exercises. We stood in a circle, and took turns leading the group (about 6) in an exercise. Squats. Burpees. Windmills. Then... my bane of banes. Jumping jacks.

Not just a few, either. FIFTY jumping jacks.

Now, I'm hardly a newbie in the fitness world; on the technical side of things, jumping jacks aren't difficult. I have the physical capability of.

No, my friend, my problem with jumping jacks is Mom's Bane. My bladder.

Oh yes. I peed ALL OVER myself. This was, sadly enough, only 30 minutes into this hour long class. I usually wear protection, but this time I'd forgotten, and wasn't too worried about it since we usually do weight training in this class on Thursdays.

Fate has a funny way of treating you. I was thankful I'd worn a long t-shirt instead of my usual -torso-hugging workout shirt. It hid the worst of it, but I was about to die of embarrassment. This was a mixed class, with guys and girls. The girls know... and one friend shared my horror with sympathetic frowns when I told her.

I decided to finish, but then I intended to go home and change out my wet pants for something less... toddler-accident-ish.

But you know something? After the class, I was ready to flee in shame, and I realized something.

No one cared. No one stared, commented, nor looked. The only one who knew was a classmate who has the same problem. So instead of skipping out on my next class, an hour-long weight class, I said screw it... I'm staying.

So I did. And I even told the instructor, and she was proud of me for sticking with it. The other ladies in that class (all the guys chickened out, they think that our 5 and 7 lb weights are girly) sympathized and told me in conspiratorial tones they had the same problem.

So I finished my class, and my biceps are screaming. I could have run home, but I didn't.

So what if they had noticed. No one cares. Everyone's generally polite enough that even if they did notice, they're certainly not going to say anything. So if you worry about people laughing at your thighs, or looking like a dummy in Zumba or not knowing what to do in that spinning class... remember me. Remember my urine-soaked panties and gigantic wet spot, and know that if I can get through an hour and a half of gym class with that, you can manage to look a little silly.

Besides, all of us started somewhere. Five months ago, I was the newbie in the class. I was the one standing in the back, embarrassed by my flopping belly and jiggling thighs.

And I'm already looking, and feeling great. And when a newbie comes in class with that deer-in-headlights look, I smile, introduce myself, and tell her that she's going to love it.

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