Jazz hands

Oh. Good. Lord.

Who the heck ever said exercise was a good idea? A friend and I went to our first death march, er, Jazzercize class last night to whip our bodies into the teenage shadows we once were. Since between us we've given birth nine times, we had a way to go. It started out nicely, Robin didn't let on that her day job was beating small puppies into submission. Chris and I swayed to the music, giggled at the enthusiasm of the other 20 ladies in the class and then amid pelvic thrusting and jazz hands I broke more of a sweat than I had in years.

Robin's eyes started to glow dark red as she honed in on the newbies and head spun around as she sashayed into a corner and hop-skipped into the next. Chris was doing admirably; I shook my butt and wished for death. My non-skid sensible shoes flew across the floor while my jiggly arms struggled to mimic the movements of the seventy year old woman in front of me, her pink sneakers mocking as she kicked higher than anyone else.

Water break! We scurried to the far corners of the room in search of our bottles, unearthed from under the car seats on the way there or fresh from the fridge. I, naturally, left mine in the car so had to stand in line at the fountain behind sweaty women who had also neglected to lock and load the bottle.

Robin, dewy - never sweaty - called us back, her body bouncing from excitement and flipping her blonde hair back over her shoulders. A huge smile on her face, I knew she was up to no good; another 30 minutes of posing, skipping and thrusting and I was ready to crawl back to the car but she cheerfully called out for weights. Chris and I feigned ignorance that we should have brought hand thingys, we haul around babies all day long, doesn't that count? So we pushed the air and watched the others suffer. I still have burn marks from the eyes boring into my back by my death campmates.

An hour later and at least one pulled muscle, I feel, if not tone and trim yet, body parts that had the crap scared out of them that I'll go again.