Hit by fit

I like exercise. And I love health clubs, even though I don't always fall for the latest workout trend. Yes, I did aerobics in the 80s and circuit training in the 90s and am now a yoga devotee, but I opted out of the spinning craze, the Krav Maga trend and the boot-camp fitness madness. I've also managed to avoid any up-close-and-personal encounters with the Pilates Reformer.

Point is, I'm a bit too picky about what type of exercise I do, and am in danger of becoming a bit of an anti-perspiration diva. So when we joined a new health club last winter, I decided to shake up my routine a bit by trying out a variety of the many classes it offers.

That's how I found myself standing at the entrance to one of the club's studios, reading the list of classes and trying to decide which one would be easiest, given that I was recovering from a nasty bout with the flu. I had read somewhere that once you're past the worst of a cold or flu, exercise helps speed the recovery process, and I was stupid enough to actually believe this.

There was only one "light" option on the menu that night: A class called "Latin Fusion," described thusly: "Heat things up with the hottest Latin music and moves. You're sure to be energized with this hot 'n' spicy cardio workout. Think you can't "work" your hips? Think again and come try it! 45 minutes."

Well, my hips certainly need work, and the class was starting in 10 minutes, so I went on in. How hard could a little shimmy-around dance class be? I thought.

I noticed right away that the people who were arriving for this class most certainly did NOT need hip work, or any other kind. They all looked like marathon runners. I'm almost certain I had more body fat that the rest of the room combined. And less muscle, clearly, than anyone else there.

"Welcome to fit!" the muscle-bound instructor chirped. Odd way to phrase it, I thought, but yes, everyone here certainly does look fit. Is "Latin Fusion" how triathletes keep in shape in the off-season?

"You'll need several things," the instructor went on. "A medicine ball, two sets of weights, a step bench with three risers, a body bar, a resistance band and a BOSU ball. Remember, drink plenty of water, and rest when you need to. We don't build any breaks into this class."

At this point, a thinking person would have realized that this ain't no dance class. But I was not a thinking person, probably because the flu medication I had taken that morning still had not worn off.

So I dutifully gathered up all the required equipment and wondered why, 10 minutes after the scheduled start time, the class still hadn't begun. At 5:45, things finally got under way, 15 minutes late. Good, I thought, maybe this means it will be over in just half an hour, rather than the 45 mintues it's scheduled for.

I won't even bother to describe the next hour and 15 minutes. Let's just say it didn't involve any Latin music, and WAY more than my hips got worked. I was flat on my back for a day and a half and was so sick for the next few weeks that I couldn't even think about exercising, though I did give plenty of thought to the money that was going down the drain in the form of the monthly fee to this rather expensive health club.

That was my last attempt at "Latin Fusion" until just recently, when I decided that I had finally built up the fitness level to give it another try. I told Jeff I was probably not going to make it through the entire class, so please don't laugh at me when I stagger out. I took a deep breath and walked into the studio, where I immediately noticed that the crowd was way different from the last time. No one was getting any equipment out, and there were quite a few hips in there that apparently hadn't gotten worked in a long while. It was all women, unlike the previous time, and a significant number of them seemed really preoccupied with their hair and nails.

"Hello, girls!!!! Are we ready to shake our bootys?!!!!" In sashayed our instructor, who could only be described as a Hispanic Richard Simmons. And yes, his name was Ricardo.

So for the next 45 minutes, we shook our bootys, learned a couple of samba steps and listened as Ricardo gushed about how talented we all were. I think at one point my heart rate might have gone up a bit, but I'm not sure. I could see Jeff occasionally glancing in from the workout floor, with a look on his face that said, "How could THIS be hard? I must be married to a WIMP!"

When the class ended, it finally occured to me that maybe I should check that schedule again. And sure enough, there was my answer: In my flu-addled state back in February, I had read the wrong column -- the days of the week are in fine print at the top of each column -- and attended a completely different class.

Its description: "F.I.T. -- Functional Integrated Training. Challenge yourself beyond traditional strength training with this advanced, total body functional strength training class. We'll challenge your muscular endurance as well as balance and coordination by moving through all phases of motion with multi-joint and compound exercises. 75 minutes."

Oh.

Moral of the story: Always read the fine print.