But I think it would be more appropriate to use the title, “I DIED at the gym today.”

Because that’s the reality.

My friend Rebeca and I started dabbling in the World of the Fit and Healthy right after John left. Well, okay, the world of the FIT, not necessarily the healthy. Not that many of the people over there aren’t both fit and healthy, but us? Weeeell, ya know. We keep telling each other if we’d just stop the regular eating of ice cream sundaes, we might actually see results to all the hard work we’re doing.

We are doing better, though. I mean, I turned down popcorn and a big bag of Easter M&M’s tonight. She turned down treating herself to an In-N-Out cheeseburger and the opportunity to enjoy fries all by herself while her kids were at my house this evening.

Because if we are going to kill ourselves, we really don’t want to throw all that killing to the wind with All The Junk, right?

Too bad we weren’t thinking of that concept this weekend while we were stuffing ourselves with ham and potatoes and all sorts of, ahem, healthy food.

But anyway, when we first started meeting at the gym, we took a look at the list of classes and found a couple we thought we’d try. We planned days we’d do cardio on the treadmills or elliptical machines, and then chose two classes. We were motivated. We were ready. We were goin‘ for it.

Our Wednesday class was called “Step and Sculpt-AOA“. Sounded good–we’d figure out what the AOA meant when we got there. It took us at least two weeks for both of us to actually make it there on the right day at the right time–due mostly to my trips to my parents’ house–so the first time she went ahead and tried it on her own.

The next day she called and said it was a great class. She was surprised at how many people there were who appeared to be in their 70′s there, but she said they were in better shape than either of us, so she figured we’d get a lot out of it. It was challenging. All the people were really nice and friendly and quite helpful to her. But she thought it kinda funny that she and the instructor were the youngest ones there.

Well.

When I was back over there the next day, I checked the schedule to see what time our Friday class would be. Next to the bin with the nifty green class schedules was another bin. It had schedules too. They said, “AOA–Active Older Adults Classes.”

Soooo… we decided it might have been advantageous to find out what that AOA meant before we started the class.

But we were still on for our Friday class. This was the one we were most excited about anyway. Rebeca had heard from another regular, everyday mom that she got great results from this class and after only a few months she felt completely toned.

The name of the class? Muscle Max.

Muscle MAX?? Muscle Max??? That should have been fair warning. I mean, what mom in her right mind decides to go to a class called Muscle Max? It sounds like death waiting to happen.

Well, y’all, I have news for you.

IT IS.

We’ve now been several times, and we at least know the basic routines. Except for just a couple of the warm-up moves that require some coordination, like when we tap one toe out to the side while swinging the opposite arm in a circular motion and ending in a pose reminiscent of a little kid saying, “LOOK AT MY MUSCLES!!” Or the one where we turn and step to the side with one leg while punching the air with the other arm. We both have this tendency to get a little “off” when the instructor starts those moves and, ya know, it’s a little embarrassing to be the only people throwing our arms and legs in all directions at the same time in a desperate attempt to get back on track.

It makes it fifty-five times worse when the only spots left in the class when we get there are the two waaaay up front and directly in front of the instructor, not unlike today. We are both convinced that her laughing this afternoon was directed at us. Because we were certainly laughing at ourselves. We were funny, peeps.

But the funniest–the fun.ni.est.–part of all of it was after that wonderful and glorious Muscle Max class had long been over.

It was in my dining room, when she came to pick up her kids after a few hours at my house, in the middle of all those children, with our arms and legs flying every which way all over again in a desperate attempt to figure out those toe-tapping and muscle-showing moves.

We don’t want to look ridiculous, peeps. There’s only so much humiliation a girl can handle.

So with our kids watching us like we were lunatics, we tapped a toe in one direction, and curled an arm–oops! wrong arm!–in the other direction. Then we turned with one leg–no, wait! the other way!–and punched the air–uh, one arm or two? And then we tapped a toe, turned a leg, curled an arm and thought seriously of directing that arm punch at the instructor next time we’re there.

Okay, not really. We like her. Even if she does look, you know, like she works out for a living. Don’t know why that would be. Anyway, Rebeca says her goal is just to look like a regular, everyday, toned mom. Not like one of those crazy fitness instructors.

But am I terrible if I say that IS my goal?

I think probably so.

But if I once again can’t walk down the stairs or lift Troy or carry Merritt around for very long tomorrow, I’m blaming that crazy fitness instructor.