IT'S NOT LIKE I'm obese or anything. It's just - well, let's just say I was never the athletic type. My parents pushed me into a childhood's worth of ballet classes when it became painfully obvious that I preferred practicing my twirls by the goal line to coming in contact with the soccer ball. And although I do my own low-impact version of a workout twice a week or so, the last exercise class I attended ended abruptly when I raced out of the room, lightheaded and ready to vomit. (In my defense, the teacher told my workout partner that I was the third student she'd lost that week.)
So, in the self-improving spirit of the new year, I decide to follow up the liver-testing challenges I've taken on for Stuff@night (seven clubs in seven nights; seven bars in one night) with a week's worth of exercise classes. To be honest, I welcome the chance to exchange my all-too-common weekday hangover for sore muscles and an ass that might actually fit into my favorite old pair of jeans. So I clear my schedule of social engagements, make sure my (single pair of) workout pants are clean, and get ready to be challenged.
Day 1
Sunday, 10:30 to 11:30 a.m.: Cardio Ballet at Revolution Fitness (209 Columbus Avenue, Boston, 617.536.3006)
Given my aforementioned dance training, a class called "Cardio Ballet" sounds like the ideal first day; I imagine pirouetting perfect circles around my uncoordinated, open-mouthed classmates. But as I stand in front of the room's expansive, unforgiving mirror, memories of barre exercises, itchy tights, and blistered toes come rushing back.
There are only five of us today, though I hear the class is usually packed with regulars (and occasional Boston Ballet dancer drop-ins). Our instructor, Heidi, enters the room and switches on a playlist of quasi-clubby tunes that immediately trump the tinkly, battered piano of my youth. We begin the exercises and my sense of balance quickly returns. As floor workouts mature into short combinations with familiar names - glissade, grande plié, sauté - I'm relieved to note that my body has some semblance of muscle memory. Heidi is enthusiastic and encouraging, yet unafraid to deliver a sassy scolding to a student who's moving too quickly. While my pulse is surely elevated, none of the routines are too confusing to keep straight - though I'd forgotten the strength it takes to hold my arms out gracefully through a mess of steps, jumps, and raises. A few times, I find myself sliding right while the rest of the class slides left, but overall I'm pleased with my performance.
Day 2
Monday, 6 to 7 p.m.: Martini Workout at the InterContinental Boston (510 Atlantic Avenue, Boston, 617.747.1000)
I'm upstairs in one of the swankiest hotels in the city, yet I'm feeling anything but suave. As I perch on my mat, my right arm and left leg extended perilously, I can't help but pity the poor soul working late in the office building across the street who happens to catch a glimpse of me mid-thrust. The Martini Workout is all about Pilates moves, core strengthening, stretching, and a maneuver that involves balancing a martini glass on one's abs to ensure the effectiveness of the crunch. The workout's creator, Jessica, is a supportive, upbeat instructor. Tonight, the soundtrack is a blend of '70s and '80s hits that imparts the energy of a Richard Simmons class, only without the obnoxious host.
Crunches are the one exercise I actually enjoy - I've always been the thick-legged girl with the flat(ish) tummy - but here, I barely make it through the first few sets. In fact, it's only the 50-something guy crunching effortlessly next to me who keeps me wheezing along. Ab work is accompanied by band-assisted stretching, some balance-testing leans, and loads of arduous pulsing. Everyone in the class seems to know one other; we exchange sympathetic smiles across the room during particularly awkward stances.
At the end of the workout, I opt out of the free martini that's offered downstairs after each session (to those who purchase Martini Workout merchandise) and make it an early night - after all, it's only Monday, and I don't want to establish myself as the class lush just yet.
Day 3
Tuesday, 6:30 to 7:25 p.m.: Middle Eastern Bellydance at Boston Sports Club (311 Arsenal Street, Watertown, 617.924.0669)
I eat a Lean Cuisine today for lunch - you know, so my belly won't be puffy. At class, a bunch of us, mostly 20-something women, are standing around eyeing each other when our instructor, Johara (her stage name), enters the room. She fastens a bit of cloth festooned with jangly gold coins around her waist, and we begin our warm-up. She doesn't have the voluptuous look I expect from a belly dancer - she's blonde, slender, and on the timid side - but she immediately assumes the persona with her first few sways in front of the mirror. As we move into the more substantive part of class, we remove our sneakers and proceed in stocking feet with hip bumps, body rolls, and fluid arm waves that snake us from side to side, then front to back. We build a few moves into repeated combinations, then pare down to work on technique. I don't sweat very much - it's more an instructional lesson than an actual workout - and I decide it would've been fun to bring along a friend with whom to exchange glances and giggles between botched moves. Try as I might, I just can't get the whole sex-appeal thing down. By the end of the session, I give up watching myself flailing around and keep my eyes on Johara, hoping to mimic the fluidity of her movements. My erratic swaying doesn't come close, but my hips have shimmy potential.
When I arrive home, I ask my boyfriend if he'd like a demonstration of my new moves. He declines. It's probably for the best.
Day 4
Wednesday, 5 to 5:30 p.m.: INKA at Equinox (131 Dartmouth Street, Boston, 617.578.8918)
I arrive a little early to Equinox, my regular gym, and decide to kill time with a few preparatory crunches. Kristy, the club's group fitness manager, sashays in a few minutes later, clicks on some New Age y music, and gives me some background on the class: it was developed by an Equinox trainer in Connecticut, and it involves a metal wall unit with two adjustable straps connected at the bottom by a cushioned bar. The idea is that, using the bar as a stabilizer, the user can lean, balance, bend, and fold, going deeper into his or her stretches without toppling over, and transferring a good deal of body weight from the joints to the bar. In short, it's a way to come at your standard exercises from a different perspective. Today, we're focusing on leg strength.
With the bar adjusted to bellybutton height, we pull back into squats, duck underneath and lean over into forward bends, and angle our bodies straight out and attempt a few push-ups. I can see how this kind of exercise might enhance other kinds of athletic activities (if I were athletic, that is). My favorite moves are the "around the world" swoops and the childlike jumps that make me feel like I'm flying, weightless, or something in between. I focus on sinking my shoulders back into their sockets and opening up my chest, and before I know it, the 30-minute session is over.
Day 5
Thursday, 6 to 7 p.m.: Combo H20 at Commonwealth Sports Club (1079 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.254.1711)
Ah, the perils of attempting to do a week of anything smack in the middle of snowstorm season. I lug my workout gear all the way to the office, but it's blizzarding by 1 p.m. and class is canceled. My trek home through the snowdrifts of Government Center, calves burning, is more than enough exercise for me.
One week later, it's time for the make-up class. I'm wearing a ridiculously unflattering one-piece bathing suit that I borrowed from a friend, figuring my skimpy bikini might be a tad inappropriate for an exercise class. I slink around the locker room until the last possible second in order to avoid the eyes of the hot college guy swimming laps in lane three.
I jump into the pool with the chirpy group of older women who make up the class's roster of regulars. Our teacher, Sean, is an enthusiastic leader, demonstrating moves and shouting encouragement from the deck. After a few warm-up laps of underwater jogging, my heart rate is already elevated. We move through the exercises - bobbing up and down, lifting our knees, creating underwater resistance with our hands - and I'm so enjoying splashing around that I almost forget I'm exercising. At one point, we even incorporate a hilarious pair of oversized, cartoon-like foam dumbbells. We're able to tailor the moves to our own abilities, and though I probably go a little easier on myself than I should, I'm still breathing heavy by the end of class.
Day 6
Friday, 6:30 to 7:30 p.m.: Club Dance at the Sports Club/LA (4 Avery Street, Boston, 617.375.8200)
I'm tired and grumpy. I usually manage to sneak out of work by 5:30 on Friday, so this is extending my day longer than I'd like. And I'm not the club-dancing type; it's a six-drink minimum before you'll see me willingly out on the floor. I consider stashing a few nips in my gym bag but think better of it.
At class, I introduce myself to the bubbly instructor, Katie, who's substituting for Pia, the regular. My pace doesn't slow for the next hour-plus. The class soundtrack is the best I've encountered; if I close my eyes, I can imagine I'm up in a VIP booth with a vodka tonic instead of bouncing around a glass-walled room wearing spandex. As Britney segues into J.Lo, my mood improves.
We build our routine from the ground up, stringing together short combinations to comprise one long piece that we "perform" from start to finish a few times as class comes to an end. I remember my little-girl days inventing dance steps with a group of twittering friends, but the intense repetition of tonight's class helps me actually learn the moves. It's the free dancing in place between combinations that trips me up - I mostly just bounce on the balls of my feet, slightly off-rhythm. You won't see me demonstrating my new moves any time soon, but I have fun in spite of myself - and burn some major calories in the process.
Day 7
Saturday, 11:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.: Punk Rope at Healthworks (441 Stuart Street, Boston, 617.859.7700)
I peel myself out of bed (relatively) early the next morning, my whole body stiff and last night's Chinese food a brick in my stomach. The loads of extra energy that are supposed to result from my daily workouts? MIA.
Abby, our instructor, is a compact bundle of energy who sort of scares the crap out of me. (I do talk to her after class and she's totally sweet.) I choose from a bucket of deceptively cheerful fluorescent jump ropes and we commence with a warm-up jog around the room. As we advance to the jumping portion - two- or three-minute sets differentiated by kicks, twists, high jumps, and figure-eights - keeping the rhythm going grows difficult, and I find myself allowing little half-skips between each jump in order to keep pace. The punk-tinged soundtrack makes me feel more like shotgunning a beer than testing my stamina.
Partner exercises provide us with a brief respite between each jumping set; I'm thankfully paired with a girl who's as motivated (read: not so much) and athletic (read: no offense, but ...) as I am. Next up, drills: think over-unders, squats, and even wheelbarrow races. If I've learned one thing this week, it's that exercise instructors are total liars: each time Abby tells us we have 10 seconds left, it winds up being more like 30. But since I manage to pant my way through, I forgive her.
After some intense abs work and a cool-down, I drag myself back to the locker room, cancel my Back Bay shopping plans, and go home to collapse. There's no question that I'll be feeling this one tomorrow. Come to think of it, that seems to be the rule of this little experiment of mine.
The final verdict: no, I don't feel any skinnier, but maybe it's all the carbo-loading that I've been allowing myself. The rigorous exercise schedule has wreaked havoc on my social life, and I'm perpetually exhausted. But my abs have definitely firmed up, and as the soreness melts away, I start to feel new strength in my arms and legs. Admittedly, the workouts are a nice break from my monotonous treadmill runs, I enjoy the camaraderie, and I definitely push myself harder when there's an entire class to keep up with.
I hit the town hard once I've finished my seven-day challenge. The next morning, that old familiar hangover surrounds my head like a halo. But it's well worth it. I hit snooze on my alarm clock, turn over, and go back to sleep. @
[Photo by Kelly Davidson]
