In Your Face: The Aftermath
Second place. Not too bad, really. 18 classes over 7 days, and that’s accounting for my zero classes on Saturday. So an average of 3 classes a day. It’s little wonder that I’m exhausted. If you haven’t read my previous blog on this, you may better understand what I’m talking about by reading that one first.
There were no more fart- and hippie-laden Yoga classes. I don’t know if the other Yoga classes are better than the one I took since I didn’t bother showing up for any more. I have no other horrible yet funny stories of that magnitude for the rest of the week. There was a cycle spin class with a heavy metal soundtrack, played to a volume that left my ears ringing (and no, it’s not just because I’m getting older… this was the crap from my teenage years and the volume was extreme to the point that the loose folds in my clothing were bouncing to the bass vibrations). Then there was the retro class which turned out to be step aerobics. The gym performed an act of sheer genius for that one by snatching an instructor straight out of 1986. The technology involved must have been awesome, and I hope to see it used for the betterment of mankind. The only things lacking were leg warmers and a side pony-tail.
But I made it through both of those classes: No walking out, no hideous odors, no terrible readings from mushy “spiritual” books.
The final party was okay, and Maggie and I had a good time talking with some of the people we’d met over the week. Some of those actual connections I had hoped for, and that made me happy. They served tacos and margaritas, though I wisely avoided the latter having learned that tequila and I don’t get along. I guess you do get just a bit smarter as you age.
And they announced the winners.
The women made a very strong showing, and a woman I’d seen in almost every class I took came in third for her gender with 9 classes more than I managed. The overall women’s winner wasn’t there to accept her prize as she was TAKING A CLASS!!! Now that’s an in your face.
The men were pathetic by comparison. Our winner did very well, with around 30 classes. I met him the day before the finale, and he had already established an unbridgeable gap in our numbers. Then he went all out on the last day and added seven more to his total. The fact that I came in second with 18 shows how poorly our sex performed. Though I’d seen very few men in the classes, I kept thinking that they must be in secret Y chromosome classes not open to my type of guy. Maybe most men were just too busy pumping iron to do something as girly as taking exercise classes.
So what did I win for my glorious silver-medal performance? Nothing. The winners got big gift certificates to a nice local restaurant. Bupkus for me and my fellow also-rans. Not even a t-shirt or a free smoothie at the gym’s smoothie bar. Not even a keychain. While I know that they were under no obligation to reward me, I still felt a bit dejected by this turn of events. When the British call someone “mean,” they are saying the person is a cheapskate. Somehow, being rewarded for my performance with only a quick mention of my name seemed mean to me, in both the British and American senses.
But Maggie is proud of me, I’m proud of me and coming in second felt like a real accomplishment after my weekend crisis of faith. So that’s it. No real moral, just an exhausting experience that showed me I can still hack it, physically speaking.
And here is my class card, though I scanned it earlier in the week so it shows far fewer courses completed than it did when I turned it in. Just for the historical record, you understand.
The card, halfway through the contest