I finally had a Friday off and I spent most of it going to two more group exercise classes: Pilates and Line Dancing. (In case you are counting, that makes five group sessions this week. Five!)
To me, Pilates is what we used to call “calisthenics” back in the ’80s. We weren’t all fancy then. All we had was Jane Fonda and her legwarmers.
Now there are balls, mats, elastic bands, weights, etc. At this class, there was also a sweaty, inflexible man next to me who grunted as he exhaled. Jane never grunted. I don’t think she ever sweated either.
By the time my abs were screaming a sound only dogs could hear, it was time for the next class. Even though it’s supposedly geared toward seniors, I was excited about line dancing. I still mourn the death of Stetsons on Mall Boulevard, which is where, many years ago, I two-stepped my little heart out a couple of times a week.
The class consisted of the instructor, me and two other ladies. I had what I never want in a group exercise session: individual attention. And I was the youngest by at least 20 years.
Subtract two, add me, and that's the class.
At least I didn’t complain. Eleanor complained. Loudly. About a variety of things. Some elderly ladies seem sweet and kind, like Betty White. Eleanor was like Betty White’s older, bitter, spinster sister.
I shouldn’t judge, though. At least she was there and trying to stay active. Rock on, cranky cottonhead!
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They’ll eat anything in Hartsville, S.C., apparently.
It is a cornucopia of apostrophe and quotation mark misuse.
The company is more progressive than most of the country. I should celebrate all progress, I guess.
Observe and report 