This may come as somewhat of a shock to those who know me, but back in days long past, I used to be quite an athlete. Every spring, I laced up my cleats, oiled my glove, received too-close-for-comfort pats on the ass from teammates and took my position on the softball diamond. I jumped, dove, swung -- the works. One time (no doubt under severe duress), I think I even ran a mile or two.
Those days, however, are clearly long gone. Since coming to college, I have developed "asthma" (Student Health code for "You're so out of shape you can no longer climb the stairs to your apartment without almost fainting from exhaustion") and my exercise often consists of walking to Arch's. From my car. Parked in the Corner Lot.
This does not mean I never seek out physical activity. Sometimes, in a fit of inspiration, I break out my roommate's 80s style "Quick Fix Abs" DVD (she also owns "Walking Away the Pounds," but that seems a little too high-impact.) At the end of my workout, however, I generally have managed only to further my distaste for brightly-colored spandex, teased-out bangs and women with rock hard stomachs and overly perky names that sound like dessert foods. Why anyone would have someone named "Candi" teach aerobics is beyond me. Her name simultaneously makes me annoyed and hungry for Starbursts. Not exactly productive in the creation of six-pack abs.
Considering my fast-diminishing athletic talent, I was somewhat wary when one of my friends suggested I "join the fun" and register for this semester's kickboxing short course. I tend to shy away from public displays of physical prowess, as evidenced by the fact that after two-plus years at the University, I am still painfully awkward at the AFC. And kickboxing is clearly no 24-minute stint on the elliptical. Kickboxing, I assume, involves actual coordination (of which I have little) and aggression (which is actually right in my proverbial wheelhouse). My only hope is that the two cancel each other out.
It doesn't help my confidence level that the last time I had anything to do with fighting of any sort, it turned into nothing short of a small-scale calamity. I encountered a rather intense catfight outside of Jaberwoke on my way home one night and, being an altruistic (and, at that time, somewhat blitzed) kid, I decided that I, Erin Gaetz, would do my part to stop the senseless fighting -- using brute force if necessary. I doubt you need a lot of creativity to imagine how that worked out for me (hot tears, pain ... for my sake, we really don't need to go into it any further). It is for this reason that I hope there is no sparring involved in this class. If there is, I plan on shamelessly finding the smallest, weakest partner I can, one with vision problems or maybe a gimpy leg if at all possible.
Participating in this kind of activity with your friends (especially if they're anything like my friends) leaves you open to a great deal of public ridicule. It's not as if the friends I am taking this class with have any illusions as to my athletic abilities. It was recently pointed out to me that one of these particular friends knew me for well over a year before she saw me increase my speed to anything above my Southern-style mosey -- and that was during a torrential rainstorm. Additionally, they have seen me attempt to do those ball sit-ups at the gym -- the ones where you try to balance (not one of my strong suits) on a completely unstable overgrown beach ball while doing a "crunch." I have no idea what kind of ass-clown thought this idea up in the first place, but I'm certain the only thing it exercises is my sense of humility.
Though my time of serious athletic skill seems to be clearly in the rearview mirror, I still have some lingering hope that I will be able to turn in a respectable performance at this kickboxing class. Really, it's a pride thing at this point -- I've got to prove to myself, my friends and whoever else is unfortunate enough to have this class with me that some trace of the ol' varsity athlete still remains. I'm sincerely willing to go the extra mile in order to hold my own in this class. But I'm not wearing spandex. That, my friend, is a non-negotiable -- I don't care what Candi says.
Erin's column is published bi-weekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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