GLOBE AND MAIL: Monday, Jan. 12 2004
Being the centre of attention — or imagining that you are — is not always a good thing. This is especially true in aerobics classes where you might hope that your hips, thighs, and buttocks are not noticed at all. And when you are the only man in class, as I often am, it’s easy to feel not only that you stand out, but that your presence is neither fully appreciated nor understood.
Some people suspect men of participating in aerobics classes only to stare at women. Not true. In fact, I so fear seeing my unco-ordinated image in the big mirrors at the front that I leave my glasses at home. As long as my reflection remains a blur, I can maintain my morale-boosting illusion that I am a few steps ahead of, rather than behind, my classmates. What they actually look like is a mystery to me. Only if I am charging naively to the right, while everyone else is marching left, do I get a close look. In fact, most men would feel awkward ogling women in class. (Ogling is a team sport, best practised with the car windows rolled down and the engine revving. An aerobics class lacks similar escape routes.) Sure, men take up positions at the back of a class — but this is because of our uncomfortable relationship with mirrors. Even if I had a more open relationship with mirrors my clumsy figure would not be my first choice of things to look at. I am normally so out of step I can’t imagine anyone looking worse. My own greatest fear is that the instructor will suddenly have everyone turn to face the back, where I am hiding, and catch me (like a deer in the headlights) panic-stricken in the gaze of my classmates.
Many women would rather not be seen in class because they fear they don’t look their best. These women need not worry about my critical judgment.
Women do seem to have a better aptitude for following instructions, and not only because commands like “raise your arms to your bra line” might be more obvious to women than men. The instructor wears a microphone to help us hear but what does “Wark ark ho war . . . lu on adok” actually mean? To compensate for my comprehension problems I concentrate on the instructor’s movements. I want her to know that I am attentive, even if not obviously obedient. When it sounds like she might be asking a question, I smile stupidly and nod eagerly like a stoned concertgoer being asked if he is having a good time.
Nonetheless, during my two decades of going to aerobics classes I have sometimes felt on the verge of discerning some pattern to the movements in class. Right, left, right, right, left, left . . . but what is that pattern?
I don’t know.
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At other times I have felt close to an artistic breakthrough — when, for fleeting moments, I am moving in harmony with my classmates like a dancer in a perfectly choreographed routine. Three steps forward, pivot, three back, reach to the right: I begin to imagine myself as a backup dancer for Britney Spears or Ricky Martin. I can almost see the talent scouts watching me. But inevitably there is a command to “Ark wark ark . . . a ron ro” and I catch a horrifying glimpse of myself rushing madly forward like some infatuated fan trying to reach the stage, while everyone else is running on the spot.
Aerobics classes do confirm how small is the range of acceptable behaviour in society. I have sometimes ignored the instructor’s commands and followed the garbled voices in my own head. After all, what is important is the energy expended, not being in harmony with my classmates. But I have not lasted long on this path. The mental strength it takes to be out of step is simply too great.
Looking silly has not kept me from going to aerobics classes. First, because the exercises are physically challenging even if many men think a real workout is accompanied by the thud of weights dropped accidentally on the floor, primordial grunts, and strutting about with lats flexed. Second, because I prefer the team-like environment of the class to the Rambo-esque preening of the weight room. Finally, I prefer to defy cultural notions that dictate what is feminine and what is masculine. I may look out of place, but that’s not my problem.
I try to maintain my dignity by reserving the right to refuse certain exercises. When the instructor asks us to assume a position on the floor on all fours and then lift a bent leg to the side, I don’t do it. I don’t care if it really does tone my inner thighs.
Several months ago, I discovered an aerobics class called Body Pump where keeping up with (or ahead of) my classmates is not nearly so difficult. In this class, we work with weights and there are no dance-like steps. Instead we do bicep curls, squats, bench presses, and the like, to music at an energetic pace. Not much can go wrong, except forgetting to secure the weights on the bar. Yet even this class rarely attracts other men, who have a knack for identifying an aerobics class, however it might be named.
Over the years I have tried almost every type of class including high impact, low impact, step, and abs. Now I hear there is a new aerobics class from California where people exercise by performing a strip tease to music. But this is one class that has little appeal for me. Feeling naked in class is something I mastered a long time ago.
