Confessions of a Gym Snob

I realized this week that I am a gym snob. It isn't my fault. Really. If Kyle hadn't introduced me to his Taj-Majal-of-a-gym in Chicago, I wouldn't know any different and could go about my life in my ingorant and carefree bliss.

I didn't even want to try out his gym. But, when your house is 80% packed up, it's -12 degrees outside, there are limited options of what to do to occupy your time. Being in our house drove me insane, so I decided to start tagging along with Kyle during the 3 1/2 weeks of limbo when we were waiting move out.

Prior to my conversion to the Taj-Majal, my idea of a good workout was just opening my front door and going for a jog along the Prairie Path. I've never been one to enjoy any sort of "working out" gym-style. Elliptical machines and weights = bleccccchhy blech. Plus, when it comes to getting a work out, unless you push yourself, it's really not worth going in. I could do a few reps on the bar, jog a little on the treadmill before I decided to shoot myself, or do a couple sit-ups, but the reality is: I have zero self-discipline. I'd walk away from the gym with 13 fewer calories than I arrived. Not worth it.

With all these thoughts in my head, I begrudgingly tagged along. I knew there was a steam room and sauna so if all else failed, I could at least hang out in there. Plus, there was a couch and a TV in the locker room. For real. So, I grabbed my work-out clothes, i-pod, and a book. Just in case.

The kids loved this gym and Kyle had been taking them there for several months while he worked out. The play area was HUGE, complete with a computer lab, basketball court, jungle gym and lots of wide open spaces.

Savannah knew the drill. She shed her coat and marched up to the automatic hand santizer and held up her hands. She lathered them up and waited for her sticker. This "sticker" was printed each time she visited. It had her name, age, parent's location of work-out, and drop-off time. Once her sticker was on her back she ran off hollering, "Byyyyye! Have fun exercising!"

As lame at is sounds, I was pretty much hooked just walking into the ladies locker room. Huge, new, clean, well-lit, towels a-plenty, rows and rows of mirrors and vanities. The gym itself was also huge. Also very clean, and well-lit. And my favorite: the classes. No matter what time of day I arrived, I never had to wait long before some sort of fitness class started. Fitness classes I quickly realized were the way to go. Someome yelling at me what to do, how long to hold it, and how many times is my way of breaking a sweat. I always got a great work-out in if I went to a class.

Except for one. Dance Jam.

I love to dance. I never took any dance classes growing up (unless you count BYU's social dance classes), but I've always loved to dance. And as such, I thought I would love this class. Getting a work out while shaking my bon-bon would be a fabulous time, right?

Wrong.

I don't think I broke even a slight sweat in this class. It was sorely disappointing. Before you jump to any conclusions let me clarify that it was because I am such an awful dancer, I couldn't do any of the moves, and therefore get pretty much zero work out. However everyone around me was bon-bon shaking away and loving it. Ten minutes into the work-out was still stuck on step two of the 3rd beat and couldn't figure out what everyone else was doing. So I spent much of my time trying to catch on and never did. It was such a downer and it didn't help that all the ladies afterward were yapping away in the locker room what a great class it was and how it really got their heart rate up, blah blah blah.

So here we are in Idaho and sadly, Idaho has no Taj Majal. After Kyle gym-shopped for a few weeks he finally signed us up for a gym that had the best to offer for the kids as far as play area goes, which was mediocre at best. No stickers or hand sanitizer. I went yesterday, totally begrudgingly. I didn't want to go. I just felt icky in it. I didn't even want to shower after getting sweaty and gross. That was one thing I enjoyed about the Taj Majal: getting ready after I worked out. But not at this one. I felt cleaner sitting in my stinky sweat than showering in that bathroom.

Driving there this morning I finally admitted to Kyle my bad attitude about going to the gym was just simply because I was a snob. Having gone to the Taj Majal has ruined me for life and I'd never want to be a member of anything else. My only hope was the fitness class I had this morning. I was going to try another dance aerobic class to see if it suit my fancy any better than the one in Chicago.

And as soon as I heard the first song, I knew it was the class for me.

David Archuletta! It was a song I knew, and for months I have secretly wanted to choreograph it in my living room. In a matter of seconds I was kicking and bouncing to cute little Davie's voice and loving it. I felt like I was 15 again.

Really for real, I even kept up with the instructor. The entire time. Every song, every move, I was able to twist and shout with the best of them.

So what was the difference?

I looked around the room and had to stifle a giggle. It was suddenly so obvious to me. I can't describe the reason in any other way except that we were a bunch of white girls. White instructor teaching white girl moves. My instructor in Chicago was not white, and I was probably one of a few white girls in my class. Everyone else was everything else but white. And they could dance. All those crazy latin and hip-hop moves came so easily to them in Chicago. And to me, it was like trying to speak Mandarin. Impossible.

But here in Idaho, we've got plenty of white girls, and so the instructor teaches white-girl moves. You know the kind. The steps that are basic, deliberate, cheesy, and easy enough for anybody to pick up. My kind of moves. Sure she threw in a little cha-cha, but it was still a very Gringa cha-cha if you know what I mean.

So I may be a gym snob, but I am not too proud to admit that I can't dance. Count me in every Wednesday morning to boogy with the white girls.

And I will proudly break a sweat.