I’m not sure what kind of animal decided it would be a good idea to create a school-like atmosphere for pain, but whoever it is, I’d like to have a word with them. Work out classes are like going back to 10^th grade geometry. All of the same insecurities and the fear of failing, except instead of graphing, you’re doing squats. I recently decided to get up one morning and attend a fitness class at my local gym. By that I mean my mother dragged me out of bed against my will while I fought back tears and yawns.

These people who attended the class with me didn’t look miserable, but eager! I was moments away from writing help me on a piece of paper and holding it against the window in hopes a motorist passing by would see me and be inclined to take action. My new “classmates” were just as happy to see me as they were to see the kettle bells. They smiled at me so much I began to wonder if my mother had warned them about me ahead of time: “My daughter is very unstable so please be kind to her so she won’t ruin this class for the rest of us.” So there I was not only having to fake interest in correcting my burpee form, but also exchanging pleasantries with folks who wouldn’t want anything to do with me outside Studio A.

Dealing with the instructor was another story. If I threw a glass plate at this lady it would shatter the minute it hit her perfectly-toned arms. She was so motivating, for a fleeting moment I felt like I could become a regular. This feeling was soon squashed as I struggled to touch my toes without wincing during the warm-up stretch. I realized that she was only saying “Good job, Addison” because I was that bad. Usually you could get me to commit arson by giving me a few insincere compliments, but not in this case. As I tried and failed to work my “something-ceps” I had vivid flashbacks of hiding in the bathroom during my warm-up lap during seventh grade P.E. So I tried to channel my 12-year-old self (which due to my already low level of maturity really wasn’t that hard) and do the move where I would quit every time the instructor looked away, and feign heavy breathing and grunting when she turned back towards me. Except this didn’t work like it used to. There was no bathroom nearby and everyone was watching me like a hawk. In this case I could run, but I couldn’t hide. Actually, I really couldn’t run either.

These exercises were imagined by someone who looked around at household objects and said to themselves “Hmm, I wonder how I could use these in a way that would ruin them for everyone.” This is why I now have PTSD whenever I look at a rope or a wooden box. We did a lot of “core-strengthening” which I still don’t really get. The only core I’m familiar with is an apple core, which I coincidentally also hate.

I kept trying to will myself to pass out so A) I could stop and B) My mother would feel guilty for making me do this and spend the rest of my life making it up to me in cold hard cash and French fries. Much to my dismay it didn’t work, it just earned me a lot of weird looks from around the room as they wondered why I was trying to inconspicuously spin around in circles with my eyes closed.

The class took a field trip to another room for a different atmosphere during our four minutes of cardio. This was my chance to hide. I was seeking solace behind the equipment that once caused me so much pain. It was the kind of ironic story I would want to share if I lived to tell it.

I know all of you reading (and by “all of you” I mean my grandparents) were wondering if I survived. Well I made it out alive, but I didn’t make it out in time for breakfast at Chick-fil-A. Now I can add not getting a chicken biscuit to my list of grievances I will be sending to the fitness cult behind this class. If you’re expecting a moral to the story that goes something like “I realized how important it is to treat my body as a temple and keep it in shape not just for appearance sake, but also for my health,” don’t hold your breath. The only piece of knowledge I waddled (my sore muscles don’t allow me to walk like a normal person anymore) away with was the importance of learning how to say no to my mother — and a new-found appreciation for my leisurely neighborhood walks that I consider a work-out.