My mother pulled a quick one on us, and Cheryl and I were left to attend Bodyjam by ourselves. I should've listened to my misgivings when I read the name of the class, but Mum insisted it was fun, so she set us up and made us go, like lambs to slaughter.
It was hilarious. The instructor was everything and more - everything you need for a completely embarrassing workout. So there we were, in that fishtank of a studio while the guy bounced around on stage, shrieking encouragingly at the three poor souls that had bravely turned up.
He moved well, we didn't.
He had more energy than the three of us put together, and we struggled.
He laid bare my complete and utter malcoordination - feet go this way and hands do what? huh?
"Mooove it laydeez! Ooooe-et-ooo-et!" is the memory of my Saturday morning, and my aching legs are my testimony.
I think I'm going to try something much slower, like yoga or bodybalance next time.
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