This January, I decided to not just turn over a new leaf, but a whole fucking tree. My life as of December 31, 2015, was a disaster. I spent the majority of December eating ramen or stolen sandwiches from the school café because I was broke AF, and if I ever even showed up to class, I was likely to hear something along the lines of, “I thought you dropped this class” at least three times. Something had to change, so I adopted the ever-annoying slogan “New Year, New Me” and decided to get my shit together.
A month has passed, and I have a budget laid out for the remainder of the semester. Not only do I show up to class, but I’m there on time, and I don’t look like I got run over by a train on the way. I’m reading more books, turning in my assignments early, and volunteering at my local animal shelter. I’ve done everything possible to make myself a better person, except for one last thing. The thing I’ve been dreading. It was finally time to start working out.
At the beginning of this week, I decided it was time to tackle this goal, and I signed up for every group fitness class my campus offered that I could fit into my schedule. My week would include sunrise yoga, core workouts, pilates, pure barre, and spin. I would finally have the body of my dreams and have abs of steel, regardless of all of the donuts and pizza I would shamelessly eat for every single meal. Surely I would look like Karlie Kloss in no time. Finally, my life would be in order.
Yesterday morning, I began my fitness journey by attending a 7 a.m. yoga class advertised as “a course designed for those at any level of fitness,” which sounded perfect because I’m about as bendy as a Sequoia tree. I showed up five minutes early in an old rush shirt and some Target leggings, ready to complete my transformation into a better, skinnier me. Unfortunately, that wasn’t meant to be.
I placed my yoga mat in between two skinny bitches with glowing skin in Buddha poses wearing outfits that outweighed the value of my car, so I immediately knew I’d fucked up. I sat down and tried to achieve inner peace, which proved to be impossible as I ran through every Lululemon outfit I owned in my head and planned what I would wear for my next group fitness adventure.
The class started and the instructor informed the class that this would be a judgment-free zone. Since I’d already received serious side-eye for not properly cleaning off last night’s eye make-up, I knew this was complete and total bullshit. What I didn’t know was that the class would be too.
I found out way too quickly that I was the least coordinated person in the class. From only being able to reach my knees in a toe-touch to physically laughing out loud when the instructor demonstrated the Birds of Paradise pose, it became abundantly clear that this yoga “for all levels of fitness” clearly had a minimum expectation that participants did not have the maximum physical capacity of the average slug. I spent as much of the class as I could manage in child’s pose and got the hell out of there as quickly as I could.
After my failure with yoga, I thought the problem may have only been with the class, and decided to attend my core strength class that afternoon. I skeptically trudged back to the group fitness room and was met with an eardrum-shattering level of Jonas Brothers music and a way too enthusiastic fitness instructor. It’s going to be ok, I told myself. This is how you’re going to get that spring break body you’ve always wanted. I have never been more wrong.
I realized this class would end more poorly than yoga when I ended up beyond winded halfway through the warm-up. As I tried to keep up with the pack of females trying to work off their kale smoothies through a half hour of planks, Supermans, side planks, and Russian twists, I saw my life flash before my eyes like it was the end of my life. I will not die this way. I am too young and pretty, I thought during what felt like my 15687th crunch. I rolled up my mat and decided that it had been a good attempt and I was giving myself an A for effort.
“Just getting some water!” I said to the instructor as I walked out of the room. Instead of stopping at the water fountain, I kept going all the way to my car, and then straight home. I decided then and there that I was done with group fitness forever.
As soon as I got home, I immediately collapsed into bed, pulling out my laptop and unenrolling myself from every group fitness course I had signed up for. Who needs abs anyway? I thought as I speed-dialed Domino’s, uncorked a bottle of wine, and set up Netflix for a Scandal marathon. It may be a new year, but I’m definitely the same old me. As it turns out, that’s just fine with me — if self-improvement means more group fitness classes, then I think the old me will do just fine for 2016 and forever..