Sunday, June 15, 2014

Ass Class

Divorce, maybe even more than a death of someone you love (unless maybe that someone is your spouse), cracks you wide open.  Suddenly, everything (beyond my love and dedication to my children) seems up for grabs.  At times, that endless possibility is terrifying, because it includes poverty, misery and loneliness.   Generally, though, it means I’m saying yes to just about everything.

One of the things to which I’ve recently said yes is something called The Dailey Method.  It’s an exercise class, a barre class, a combination of ballet, yoga, aerobics, pilates and weight-training.  It hurts.  It makes me mad.  And nauseous.  And I love it.  And, quite frankly, I love what it does for my ass.  In fact, privately, I call it “ass class”.  All the wear and tear my babies put on my body, ass class helps reverse.  That rounded belly?  Flatter.  That sagging tush?  Lifted, firmed, rounded.  Arms and legs, long and lean.  All in one intense hour.  I love how strong I feel.  And my ass, not what I ever thought of as my best feature, is, in this new age of dating, much admired.

I’ve been doing class for years, actually, but I recently said yes to instructing.  Though The Dailey Method is now all over the U.S. and even as far-flung as France, somehow I’m lucky enough to have its founder, Jill Dailey, as my neighbor, mama comrade and friend.  She’s been bugging me for years to teach.  I always said no.  And then last month I said yes.

Jill, because she’s an ass-kicker, because she knows I’m an ass-kicker (though much her junior in that department) put me on the teaching schedule for July.  Which means that I’m cramming six months of training into this gorgeous month of June.  Which, frankly, I prefer.  I’m not one to dither.  I’m one to jump in.

And so, lately, you might find me at the Dailey Method studio around the block from my house, music blasting, microphone head-set in place, shouting directions (“up an inch, down an inch, ladies, you can go lower, come on!”) to an empty room.  Practicing.  Learning something new.  Another something new in this time of complete possibility.