Old Lady Classes

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So I checked out another class at La Fitnesse today.  Because I am socially awkward I did this by spying on them from the comfort of the Deathmaster where I put in a good sweaty twenty minutes of toil.  So it was a win-win.

My theory going into this was that the class would be attended largely by helmet-haired ladies of a Certain Age who would arrive perfectly coiffed and wearing matchy-matchy gym gold lame’ outfits that perfectly went with their shoes and all that.  I fully expected there to be no men at all or perhaps one.  One old guy wearing terrycloth wristbands with his t-shirt tucked into his sweatpants.  You know the one I’m talking about.

Stereotypes, people.  STEREOTYPES ARE HURTFUL.

But anyway.  There I was, perched atop the stairstepper, gawking furtively into the glass-walled classroom.  Along came a rather trim older lady, certainly well-groomed but not Yetta from “The Nanny” or anything.  If anything, she looked like she could totally kick my ass.  And then another one showed up.  And then a little older lady who was slightly less sprightly.  And then the really buff older lady who taught the class.  And then a guy.  Okay, he was older, but he didn’t have wristbands and his shirt wasn’t tucked in.  But he certainly had a raging case of White Guy Rhythm.

By “older” I mean “older than me by at least ten years, maybe twenty, it’s so damn hard to tell.”  Just to clarify.

And then someone a bit younger than me who was wearing a neoprene knee brace, and then at the last second, two girls who look like they maybe just graduated from high school.

I kept my eye on them as I finished my Deathmastering.  They were doing stuff that looked like non-impact aerobics with a lot of moving this way and that way and so on.  I’ll feel like a moron but I think I can manage this.

See you next week, ladies.  And Mr. Astaire.

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