Close the Door!

10 Jan

So I take this aerobics dance class, right? It’s pretty cool; I actually work up a sweat and kind of have fun (coming from a girl who once affected a slight limp just to get out of gym class, this is a triumph), so I do enjoy it. Last night’s class was interesting, however.

The fan was not hitting my particular section of the dance studio. Although it was becoming unbearable, I was fine. The woman in front of me was not fine and, despite this being completely understandable, she opened the door behind us to let in some air. Which then provided a view to the people exercising outside of the dance studio. Which meant that they could see us. Which meant that I could be seen. Which meant that certain worm-like dance moves designed to work the abs and hips were now completely visible to those prying eyes. Which meant that the truly curious could now stand by the door and peek inside. I resembled a sweaty, breathless lunatic with wild hair and an even wilder expression on my face. (Apparently, I begin the process of turning into a werewolf when I exercise). Every person that came by that door (and believe me, they came) witnessed this. That door remained open until the very end of class. As I walked out, in post-exercise pain and in post-visible-to-others embarassment, I caught the eye of one of the guys who had stopped by to gawk. Conversation that should have happened:

Me: What was with the staring? We don’t stare at you when you work out.
Him: I couldn’t help it. The door was open.
Me: Would you eat a jar of ants if the top was open?
Him: That’s not the same thing!
Me: It very well should be.
Him: Look, you looked kind of nuts and I wanted to see what was going on in there. Plus, I wanted to confirm that it was a real workout and not some kind of weird dance class.
Me: Well?
Him: Judging from what you looked like, I don’t know what to think.
Me: Let me assure you that, yes, it is a real workout class. It’s cardio and it can be rough. Just because you hear Shakira doesn’t mean we’re re-enacting one of her videos. Secondly, you can come inside and try it. Then you’ll understand why I looked that way. Third, you might want to concern yourself with the inappropriateness of your workout attire. That’s just not right.

And then I would have walked away, satisfied with my sassiness. Unfortunately, what did happen was a mean stare-down between he and I, after which I hobbled my way out of the gym. Whatever. I kind of want to blame the gal who opened the door, though. But I won’t. It’s the whole needing a scapegoat thing. All right, it’s her fault entirely.

Next week, I might move to the middle of the room. Turning into a werewolf seems to require a bit of privacy.

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