You can see part 1, in which I demonstrate my awesome knowledge of physiology, here.

A friend and I semi-regularly attend a very early morning class at our gym called Muscle Max.

Muscle Max typically consists of approximately one million lunges and squats in rapid succession in crazy combinations, set to loud music.  The idea is that the complex series of moves plus the loud music plus the quick pace will distract you from the fact that you’re doing something hard and potentially dull, and will get your heart rate up so that by the end you feel both sore and sweaty.

Yesterday morning, our regular Muscle Max teacher was not there.  Now, regular teacher is not without her quirks — when she’s counting off the reps, she often slips into this high breathy voice that makes it sound like the very act of counting down from eight is enough to take her to her very happy place, if you know what I mean — but she’s our regular teacher, and it’s a good class, so we’re used to it.

Remember how when you were a kid and you walked into school to find you had a substitute it was a great moment?  It meant that you were going to get to goof around all day, probably watch a movie, not be held to account for really getting anything done?  Yeah, when it comes to classes at the gym, you can take that logic and shove it.

Substitute Muscle Maxer walks in and immediately instructs us to march in place.  We look ridiculous, but we obey.  Then she has us, and I quote, “flap your arms like a bird really fast while you toe touch side to side.”  I wish more than anything on earth that I could find a video that would demonstrate this maneuver to you, because while it did very little to warm up my muscles, it was VERY effective at making me look like an idiot.

She then proceeded to turn on her music.  Blaring out of the speakers comes a fun reggaeton beat, kind of a nice departure from the usual Madonna/MIA/Katy Perry stuff we usually get.

But then the next same came on and it was a very similar reggaeton song.  And then the next.  And the next.  And for a FULL HOUR, we listened to reggaeton.  (Except for one oddly-placed Los Lonely Boys song in the middle of the hour. I have no explanation. Perhaps her playlist is entitled “anything vaguely latin?”) Now, don’t get me wrong.  I actually kind of LIKE reggaeton.  But you know what it’s particularly good for?  DANCING.  (In 2006.)  You know what it is not good for?  Doing the world’s most mind-numbing series of endless reps of boring exercises, especially when the instructor counting them off is making no effort to do so in time to the music.

After the class, one of the other girls came up to me to chat about her frustration at missing our regular teacher.  I wholeheartedly agreed, and then she said “okay, I’ll see you – maybe at spinning tomorrow, you usually come to the Thursday class, right?” and I said “yeah, I do, I’ll see you tomorrow” and I realized- it appears that I’ve become one of those people who is a “regular” at my gym.  Odd.

I guess this is progress. But if I start mixing protein shakes/grunting on the treadmill/tanning, someone’s going to have to stage an intervention.