I’d seen an exercise class at the end of the jetty late yesterday afternoon, and it looked pretty idyllic. There were about ten people and they were on their bums and their arms were stretched to the gods. That looks like a bit of me I thought.
So I rocked up at 5 today, joining half a dozen alarmingly fit looking French women and one French man, all taut and tanned within an inch of their terrific lives.
We went straight into a warm up stretch. Watch me, I can stretch with the best of them I said to myself, not in French.
Then the instructor put on a different track, a frighteningly upbeat let’s not stretch to the gods let’s give them a brown eye instead kind of track.
She spoke in French and I can confirm ten lessons have not made a linguist out of me. The only words I understood were Left, Right, Repeat and Marche! The only time she shifted into English was to say pointed things like “Get that butt closer to the ground” and “Lower” and “Higher” to the only non-French speaker in the class. That would be me.
I threw myself at it of course. I’ve learned that it’s the only way. I’m too old to be the surly girl in the back of the class now (what with me not being 16) and besides there was nowhere to hide out there on the jetty. Leaving wasn’t an option for me. It’s a long jetty; that would make a lengthy walk of shame.
For most of the class I vacillated between worrying I would pee myself with all the leaping and jumping, and worrying that I would misjudge my steps and throw myself into the sea. You’ll be happy to hear neither of these came to pass. I also giggled a lot. At least I’m top of the class at that.
And then fifty minutes later we were stretching it out, stretching it down. And for three perfect minutes we looked like the scene I had spied the day before.
I am constantly amazed at my ability to stumble into adventure. All kinds of adventure. This was a simple aerobic adventure, but all by itself it served its sweet little purpose.
Stretch it out girlfriend. Stretch that comfort zone out.