Getting in shape with bizarre brigade

Press, 16 April 1984, Page 14

Getting in shape with bizarre brigade

Helen Brown VS

The kid fixed me with a cool stare of assessment. He had never looked at me that way before. You can’t fool them forever. Sooner or later, they work out — a) You are not personally responsible for dragging the sun into the sky every morning. b) You are not the only mother on earth, but one of a vast collection. c) Chances of you being best, or even in the top 10,000, are slim. “Look at yourself,” he said. “What??” I glanced down at my arms, hands and feet. They seemed the same as usual. “Your stomach is sticking out.” “No, it’s not!” I said, quickly drawing it in as close to my backbone as it would go. “Yes it is.” “It’s always been like that.” Nothing cuts like criticism from kids. They prefer honesty to compliments. No wonder adults, with their webs of conversational deceptions, are so wary of children. Two days later, I enrolled for fitness classes. It was not an easy decision. Even Jane Fonda

would not revel in the chance to roll around on the unforgiving floorboards of a school hall. I kept hoping something would make it impossible to go — a phone call or pressing work. Maybe even a strained ankle. I started a letter that would take hours to finish. Half-way through page two, I ate a chocolate. Guilt hovered over me like a thunder cloud. I crept into the bedroom and tried on my old black leotards.

He was right. Driving to fitness classes for the first time was no fun. Ghastly visions of the other class members reared up in front of the windscreen. They would all be anorexics who thought they needed to trim down — those appalling eight-stone women who say “God! I’m so fat.” Or could they all be so elephantine I would seem a delicate model in German porcelain? We were a mixed bunch — small women who had just had babies; large ones who hadn’t; medium-sized ones who didn’t let on what they had been up to. The only thing we had in common was a sheepish grin. Our clothes were bizarre, as if someone had provided a chest of sporty gear and left us to fight it out. Tights, shiny satin playsuits, various parts of track suits and (thank heavens!) leotards. The instructor told us men had asked about the classes, but were too shy to attend. “Thank heavens!” a chorus went up. It was bad enough tying yourself in knots in front of non-voyeuristic female eyes. “We have 500 muscles in our bodies,” the instructor said, turning on her “ghetto

blaster" ana making sure we tortured every one. “If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it properly.” Hardly my motto. I felt strangely alone. Perhaps my system was overdosed with oxygen and pain. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the early arrivals bad cunningly placed themselves at the back so no-one could watch their performances. I was stuck in front making a fool of myself and, worse, unable to cheat. We were stretched out on the floor like insects on a dissecting board when a woman in red shorts called “Someone’s coming!” “It’s a ... MAN!” yelled her friend. Half the class would have dived for cover. Except there wasn’t any. We stood, breathless, like nuns in a convent about to be invaded by ferocious foreign soldiers. The instructor went over to the window and peered out. “No, it’s not,” she said. “Phew!” We settled back to our uncomfortable secret activity, knowing it would all be worth it if one day a friend, husband or child looked at us with honesty and said those magic words, “Gee! You look great!”