Two weeks ago I wrote a blog about my birthday weekend and mentioned that I refused to get on stage during kickboxing because I didn’t like the way my ass looked in the workout pants I was wearing. I might have made a smart-allecky remark about Chris Stevenson not picking me up and placing me on stage against my will (as he is known to do) for fear of hurting his back (due to the size of my ass). I was trying to be self-deprecating, but Chris took it to mean that I was challenging his manhood and calling him old (which I would never do because he is at least 10 years younger than me and that would make me… nevermind)!
This past Saturday he motioned me up again. I did not want to go.
As much as I enjoy being the center of attention (what – a blogger that likes attention?!) kickboxing is a place I prefer to remain anonymous. I’m not very graceful and my kicks aren’t very high. I have to stop a lot to wipe off the incredible amount of sweat that is pouring down my face (I hate sweat on my face) and take a lot of water breaks. And of course the woman he had pulled onstage already was gorgeous and about two inches taller and
20 30 pounds skinnier than I am. That’s always fun to stand right next to. In front of everybody.
And saying my workout look is not my best look would be an understatement. Even before the sweat. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail that just looks sloppy instead of a messy ponytail that looks cute like other women seem to be able to achieve. And I hate the way I look without bangs, but I pull them back in a bobby pin and expose my gray roots and in-desperate-need-of-some-Botox forehead to the universe because the only thing worse than sweat on your face is wet sweaty bangs on your face.
And I wear baggy black yoga pants from Costco and drab deteriorating tank tops from Old Navy instead of the brightly colored Lululemon outfits that 90% of the other women at my gym tend to wear.
And don’t get me started on the sorry state of my middle age arms. Ugh.
But it was 95 degrees outside (at 9:30 AM) and when you are in a kickboxing class with 50 other people it gets really, really hot no matter how high you turn on the air in studio. It looked like I might be able to breathe a little bit better on stage. (And who knows, maybe my batwing triceps would be useful and actually fan the people standing behind me.)
And as lame as my kickboxing skills are (and for someone whose been kickboxing for about 14 years they’re pretty lame) – nobody really watches you when you’re on stage; they’re too busy watching themselves in the mirror. (Or is that just me?!) I couldn’t even tell you who was pulled up for the class I took three days before. (Except that she was probably skinny with a cute-messy ponytail and Lululemon clothes.)
So when Chris motioned me up to the stage this time I rolled my eyes and walked up there. I mean, I was afraid if I didn’t he might try picking me up, throw out his back and feel unmanly. And I didn’t want him feeling unmanly.
And you know what? I think I kind of rocked it.
*Photo of Chris Stevenson on stage courtesy of www.stevensonfitness.com