I wish I had a video camera. Because words, I fear, cannot convey the extent of which I looked like a giant, uncoordinated, lanky, foolish dork on Monday night.
Ben talked me into taking "step" class at the YMCA. It's an aerobic class where you basically do different foot movements and kicks that require stepping on and off a platform. Not only do you have to get your feet to do short, quasi-choreographed movements, you have to move your hands and arms, too.
I could barely get my feet to move at the right time and in the correct sequence, let alone coordinate my arms to do whatever they were supposed to do. You would think that after much repetition -- doing the same foot sequence for maybe five sets throughout the course of an hour -- someone with a year of danceline and several years of dance class behind her could get a handle of things. Not me.
No, this girl, at times, just kind of stared at the instructor, wondering how I could get my feet to connect with my brain. Whenever the instructor apologized for the confusing moves, I knew she was talking to me. In a group of seven, I was the worst. Even Ben, who my sister had initial doubts about, performed much, much better than me. Compared to me, he was like a Vikings cheerleader, albeit a 6-feet-2-inch one with legs of steel.
So next time at the YMCA, I will return to the treadmill and kiss it. Because running is one thing my feet can do right.
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