For those of you who don’t know me, fact #1 is I’m a bit of a gym freak. I’ve been lucky to have access to a gym at the University of Michigan but also at home in DC, so it’s just a part of my routine. I feel really uncomfortable taking a shower if I’m not offensively sweaty, so I work out. Pretty much daily, usually 6 days a week. Sometimes I’ll stay at the gym a few hours at a time; it’s fun and there’s tons of stuff to do—move around on a gravity-defying machine I call the “Moon Walker,” lift heavy things, play on bouncy balls, roll around on squishy mats on the floor and contort your body in novel ways.
Fact #2- I love cheese. Like, could eat it every day, at every meal, forever and always. I don’t know when this started, but it’s out of control. Last time I was in France for an extended period, when I studied in Paris for a semester my junior year of college, I gained like 15 lbs and pretty much morphed into a living, breathing cheese sculpture. (For those who are now reading with judgy eyes, know this: weight gain is ok if it’s happy weight. No regrets).
Facts #1 and #2 worked in tandem to change my approach to fitness this time around in France. In Paris, I was a proud glutton; my workouts generally meant walking from pastry shop to pastry shop or shifting positions during a wine-soaked Seine-side picnic. Now that I’m in France for a year, however, and I would prefer to lose 15 lbs rather than gain it, I signed up at a local fitness center the day after I arrived here in Digne. That was yesterday. The nice lady at the front desk let me take a look around the facilities, and then the whole registration process took about 10 minutes: fill out a one-page form, pay, get your entry pass, done. I went back in the afternoon, lifted weights, and biked a bit. All was well.
Tonight, I went to the gym. The cardio machines are limited (5 in total; 2 bikes, 2 treadmills, 1 elliptical) and I get bored easily, so I decided to try a class that was beginning soon after I arrived. “Step Inter, 1 hr.” Seemed harmless enough. I took a “Muscle UP” class fairly frequently back home, where we would do little moves on our steps while holding dumbbells—it was a pretty good workout, and I had better coordination than most. In short, I figured I’d be fine.
I set up my spot in the class room and noticed that none of the gym-goers around me were very muscled, and no one had weights beside them (in hindsight, that should have been my first clue). I asked my neighbor; yup, a step was all we needed. At 5:45 PM on the dot, a fit middle-aged man swept into the room, put on some upbeat American dance music, and began a simple warm up. Step on the bench, step off. Repeat. I began to fear that I wouldn't get enough of a workout.
Ten minutes later, I miss the warm up. I am drunkenly stumbling on and off my step in a daze, trying to watch the graceful woman in front of me as she completes the complicated steps (knee up, kick, turn, sashay, turn, step on, step off, turn, what is that even called?!, turn, etc). I can only faintly here the instructor up front calling out the moves. I realize this isn't a problem for anyone else; they already know the steps! The injustice! In the corner of my eye, I see a few people just outside the classroom and I swear to god, they are laughing at me. Hell, I’m laughing at myself.
My amusement soon turns to misery, however, as the complicated steps turn into even more complicated combinations. Rather than step-touching between moves—BAM! BAM! BAM!—the instructor starts to throw them together in sequence. I get it, I mean, it looks great when everyone else does it. White swans galore in this gym-turned-dance studio. I myself am sweating, more from embarrassment than exertion, and have given up on faking the steps. I step-touch and half-heartedly knee-up until the idea of another half hour of this torture is intolerable. Quietly, I admit defeat and put my step away, retrieve my things, and walk out with my tail between my legs.
The humiliation continues as I exit the room and am forced to confront the bemused spectators: “I give up. That’s just not possible for me to do!” I sigh, smiling in a way that I hope is charmingly self-deprecating, and thankfully receive some laughs. I choose to believe that they were laughing with me.
Just outside the locker room, an inferiority complex rears its ugly head—I need to feel strong and capable. Out comes my computer, and my sole ally in the world of French gyms: Shaun T. It's about to get INSANE. I opt for the “Fit Test,” which (for those of you who haven’t tried the Insanity workout program) is a series of 8 moves that you do for a minute each, amounting to a good total-body workout that leaves you laying on the floor in a puddle of sweat. I only wished my classmates could see me crank out squats and push-ups; that’d teach ‘em.
I end up tired and sweaty, and yet…something is still nagging me. The nice lady at the front desk—the same who signed me up—also witnessed my self-imposed early dismissal from the front desk. Upon passing, she urges me to try the next class that’s about to begin, “Abdos Fessiers, 1 hr.” Abs and butt? I automatically read “Crunches and Squats,” and hope swells within me—I CAN DO IT!
One Week Later:
And guess what? I did it! And I'm going again tonight! I have to pay super close attention to everyone around me so I can make sure I am doing everything right, but the instructions are getting easier to understand. It's quite a lot of "En haut!" and "En bas!" and "Encore!" (Up, Down, and Again!) from the instructor, and "Aïe!" and "Oh la la!" from my classmates (Both of those exclamations, in this context, translate rather clearly: "OW!"). I feel like I've taken a step to participate in the Digne community by joining the gym, and I can at least be proud of myself for that. New vocabulary will just be an added bonus.
