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.