Kettle Bells are ringing

I was just stretching. Minding my own business in one of the classrooms at New York Sports Club. Normally I work out in the morning, so the classrooms are blissfully quiet, dark and empty. Tonight: bright as a June morning. So I get down to it, the ridiculous poses and grunts that accompany my attempts to be limber in the face of middle age. Some activity was happening in by the door. Normally just another midlife refugee who wants to stretch and escape the pounding decades-old beat of the gym’s music selection. My iPhone thankfully blocks out the un-deejayed selections. 

So as I lay on my stomach trying to arch my back like a seal, I see black shoes in front of me. For a second I think, Your ear buds are preventing you from hearing anything. Comments, music, fire alarms. Maybe you should take them out to see what’s up. I look up t see a handsome, tall black man in one of those muscle shrink-wrapper shirts. He smiles, politely asking, “So? You taking my class?” 

Lately, since my “divorce,” my philosophy has been, Whatever opportunity comes along, just say Yes. This philosophy has gained me some cool new experiences and got me into some weird situations. Maybe this is the former. Worth a try.

“What’s your class?” I said.

“Kettle Bells,” which came out of his mouth with a smile and a wink that said, Get ready for something.

“Umm… OK. Yes.” (There’s that philosophy again. I should do something about that, huh?)

So there’s one anther guy I the room. A middle aged white guy like me in reasonably good shape. No fat on him. I thought I could beat him in a race but maybe not arm-wrestling. I introduced myself/he did the same (Jeff). Now we’re all family. What can only be described as an ass kicking. There were a few pieces of gym torture equipment I had to help bring out. Two different weights of kettle bells, which look like little bowling ball purses covered with rubber so you won’t scuff you good shoes. Some dumbbells, a platform made of stacked plastic squares, and two pieces of rope about 30 feet long each. This was going to be interesting. Also: the gym outside the window to this classroom was packed to the gills with spandex-clad gym rats. That, coupled with the June morning lighting, made me feel like a lab experiment, or worse, a make up gym class from the 7^th grade.

So Black Adonis says, “We’re going to do something called Spartacus.” So me, I thought this involved some bad drag and a Tony Curtis impression. Nope. It’s 10 exercises done for one minute each in succession. Ten minutes? That doesn’t sound bad. So B.A. gets us warmed up, stretched out a little with jumping jacks, push ups, squats. So far, easy.

From here the test begins. Jeff and I do a 10 second version of everything. Push ups, lunges, squats while holding our rubber purse kettle bells, rows with dumbbells, more lunges with dumbbells. It goes on through all ten. All the time the rats outside the window are watching. No problem.

So B.A., who is yelling instructions at the top of his lungs to just us two, says we are ready. The next set is one minute each. The first minute was a snap, the second I felt a little burn. So what?  By the third minute I thought the clock was slowing down a little, but he had his iPad showing us the time. Coming up on the fifth minute I was breathing heavy, pulling my arms with the dumbbell over my head with that sound. You know that sound? The very quiet groan you heard from your dad as he got up in the morning? Now my dad was an athlete of sorts, so I thought that sounds came from the same place my morning sounds came from when I was young. I just loved sleep so much I didn’t wan to get up. And me making that sound was an effort to ward off the day and my mom telling me that school was a-coming and I’d better be ready NOW. As I’ve aged, I now realize that sound my dad was making was coming from moving limbs that would rather stay still. I was making that sound because my body was saying, Be still! Fool! You should be watching television and drinking a cold one! Lay down! For the first time in a long time this voice was making some sense.

I’m in pretty good shape for somebody my age (47). I had to get it together. I go to the gym because (1) I’m single now, (2) I live in New York City, and (3) I’m gay. It’s the law. The fear of being single, the affinity for drink and the inability to et any sleep over the last 8 months while we separated allowed me to trim down my pork-bun-like figure to a more svelte Nan-style consistency.  I thought I had it going on. Until this class.

So I’m sweating now. And like any male, I’m trying to hide that, which is tough without a towel. It’s only been eight… long…minutes. I look over at Jeff, who is… standing still!