Footloose: Jane’s Barefoot Body Pump
April 8, 2008
My mom’s in town. Staying with me. She is, um, a neurotic woman. And she’s a morning person. I, however, am not.
So this morning while I was busy avoiding her, I packed my gym clothes and left them by the door, ready to grab-and-go as I left for work. I was a little frazzled by the pre-8am inquisition.
I headed to work and spent the day frazzled by a completely mindless project that I managed to botch terribly. Because I’m awesome like that.
I came home for lunch and had yet another long discussion with my mother about stuff that I didn’t want to talk about, then back to work for more fixing-the-thing-I-screwed-up. This fixorating kept me at work late, and I ran out the door to the gym in an attempt to make my 7:00pm Body Pump class. I was focused acutely on the task of getting to the gym, finding parking, changing, and getting in line — prepared to elbow the other bitches out of the way. (The front right corner is mine. I make a reservation every week. Get in fucking line.)
So I arrive at the gym and find my body-pumping-coworker in the locker room. We exchange pleasantries and started changing into our hottest workout gear. I threw my bag into the locker and put the lock on.
Problem.
No shoes.
WHAT THE FUCK! I left my fucking shoes at home. But I do not miss Body Pump. So after confirming that I am an idiot, I start asking around. Shockingly enough, no one had a spare size 10 pair of shoes.
So what do I do? Hmm? I fucking do Body Pump barefoot. It was actually an interesting experience. I won’t go into the “wow, I felt so grounded” stuff. It was just a completely different feeling. My balance was different. My toes were digging harder. I was a barefooted, hippie, weightlifting machine.
Oh, and a complete idiot. I blame my mom because it’s what I do. If she wasn’t pestering me all morning, I wouldn’t have forgotten my shoes, right?
Yeah – probably not. Just an idiot.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized. Tags: barefoot, body pump, shoes.
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Michael Makovi | May 22, 2009 at 2:22 pm
If I knew what “body pump” meant, I’d probably find this funnier.
I’m reminded of the time that I had a finished wrestling match.
(Good t-shirt I saw: “Wrestling: The Most Tiring Six Minutes in Sports”. Really, by the time a match is ending, the two guys are so tired and sluggish, that a five-year-old could come on the mat and beat both fellows.)
So anyway, I finished my match, and my coach said I had no more matches that day. So I was a bit thirsty, but I figured, “Meh, I’ll drink some water after the day’s matches are all over; I’m too tired right now to get up off the bleachers and drink water. Hey, does anyone have an Sour Patch Kids?”
(Don’t ask me why, but Sour Patch Kids seemed to have been the official snack food of the wrestling team. NO ONE wrestled without having eaten some Sour Patch Kids.)
Suddenly, my coach calls my name and announces I have a match, NOW. Oh crud. Here I am, exhausted and dehydrated, with a match coming up.
I enter the ring. Wait a second; why is this guy wearing one of those head-coverings that women wear when they swim? Oh crud…
So off we go. I’m so tired and dehydrated that I was feeling light-headed and perhaps a tad dizzy. It’s truly a miracle that I didn’t pass out; wrestling gets you hot enough when you’re well hydrated; I should have gotten heatstroke! I just wanted to collapse on the floor, but somehow, we had a decent match. I felt like one of those super-heros when he gets flung around the room by the villain, smashed into one wall and the next; “Please oh please, just let this match end. I just want my Mommy!”
In fact, I still was able to outclass her in physical strength; every time she got me in a hold, I broke out. Unfortunately, I was so slow and lethargic, that she’d get me right back in the hold again, and then I’d break back out, repeat ad nauseum. So, in the end, she won by points.
I console myself, saying that I was indeed stronger than her, and no one ever said men were supposed to be faster than women. So if I was stronger and she was faster, what do I have to be embarrassed about?
Never, NEVER, sit lazily on your butt after a wrestling match, assuming you’re finished for the day. Idiot.
And then there’s the time that I casually remarked to a woman that a man’s job in life is to open jars. Wouldn’t you know it, she turned out to be an ardent feminist. That was an unpleasant conversation.