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.

Exit strategy

I didn't get laid off last week.

For most people, that would be reason to celebrate. And, given our financial situation, it is.

But only to a point.

I'm exhausted, you see. I go to work at 4 or 5 p.m. and arrive home long after midnight. I go to bed as quickly as possible after arriving home and, if I'm lucky, I can get a little more than five hours of sleep before the stirrings of a morning-oriented household, as well as my morning-oriented circadian rhythm, pull me back to consciousness. Then the daily schedule swings into action, and I'm staggering through another day on autopilot, snapping at Elijah for little things, zoning out at 65 mph on the interstate and feeling my health decline in ways big and small.

It's been this way for five years now, ever since I made a vow that the little bundle of joy and demands in my arms would never spend one second in institutional child care while in his infancy or toddlerhood. Hence, the need to work nights so I could be home with him during the day. Over these past five years, I've had several cardiac episodes that ended with an ER doctor, peering at my test results, asking me when I intended to start getting enough sleep and cutting down on the staggering amount of caffeine it takes to get me from 8 a.m. one day through 1 a.m. the next day.

I've even taken heat from a dermatologist when I had the nerve to ask why, after decades of relatively healthy skin, I'm suddenly getting precancerous lesions everywhere. (This is despite my dedicated use of sunscreens so powerful that until recently, they weren't even approved by the FDA -- thanks, online Canadian pharmacies, for your skin-protection assistance!) He looked at me carefully and said something along these lines: "I can tell you're not getting much sleep. Our immune systems are constantly fighting off cancer throughout our bodies, and sleep and exercise are the most important factors in healthy immune system functioning. And remember, not all early stage cancers are as easy to spot as skin cancer."

The lecture went on, but you get the idea.

That brings us to June 16, the day my employer laid off more than 1,400 people across the company, 120 of them at my workplace. Since another lovely facet of my job is that I work weekends, I was home on that dark Monday and thankfully missed a pretty grim scene. We lost some good people, some VERY good people, and those of us remaining are acutely aware of how fortunate we were to escape the ax. But given that our industry is sinking and sinking fast, we know our time is limited.

That's the day I decided to formulate my exit strategy. I must admit that it's not much of a strategy, but here it is: Get all debt except the mortgage paid off. Switch our family health insurance coverage to Jeff's employer. And pounce on the next buyout offer (expected late this year or early next year) with a vengeance.

In case you're wondering exactly what it is that I do, let me refer you to a fellow journalist (at another newspaper) whom I've always admired and who sums it up quite nicely here:
www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/19/AR2008061902920.html

Is it too soon to write the obituary on newspapers? Maybe. But given my current state of exhaustion, I'm ready for my own chance to rest in peace.