The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

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The Funambulist and Her Band of Buffoons

(Les Crunches, Vortexia) -- Kim, the vivacious Group Power instructor at the gym I belong to, is a saucy little spitfire whose irrepressible personality makes working out not only bearable, but actually fun. That this 30-something, single mother of four is astonishingly fit was incentive enough for me to take her class. Who in their right mind wouldn’t drag themselves out of bed every morning in the hope of attaining a body like hers? (Madness, I know, but who says women are sane when it comes to their body image?)

Of course, it would be easy to envy this effusive dynamo, this impulsive, beautiful woman with her dazzling smile and infectious laugh, this human pretzel who can contort her body into any shape, lift as much weight as a man, do hand stands with one arm and dance like a female Michael Jackson. Next to her I feel like a centenarian on Prozac. But Kim is also as playful, transparent and vulnerable as a ten-year old; so not loving her is simply not an option.

Another element at play in this scenario is small-town life. Here, if everyone doesn’t know everyone, we at least know of someone who does. In other words, when it comes to relationships, we hit the ground running, and by necessity, we are our own entertainment. Add to this picture the group of diverse women taking Kim’s class – savvy young girls, gossip-hungry moms, mid-life fugitives, renegade retirees – and you see why my group power classes are never, ever, ever, dull.

During our workout the other day, for example, Kim announced that her current boyfriend, and several of his friends, had dressed as Ghostbusters for Halloween, posting their pictures on Facebook.

“So, you know I don’t tell nasty jokes, right?” she asked, the droll tone of her voice a sure sign we were in for another one of her legendary stories.

Straining to lift our weights in time to the music, we all nodded in agreement. It was true; we had never heard her tell an off-color joke. Almost never. Not really off-color.

“Well, I made a comment on his Facebook page,” she continued, “telling him I’d seen an apparition in my bedroom and I that I was going to call and have them come over to take care of it. It was a joke.”

She paused for effect, and then indignantly blurted, “He deleted my comment because he said it was too racy! Can you believe that?”

“I must be dense,” I muttered, laboring through my lunges. “I don’t get how he thought that was ‘racy.’”

“Yeah,” a chorus of female voices agreed. “He’s the one with a dirty mind. Ach, men! They…”

Phillip, the lone male in our class, blushed. We bantered back-and-forth for a minute, wickedly relishing poor Phillip’s discomfort.

Kim picked up two fifteen-pound weights, flexing her perfectly toned biceps. “Well, thank you!” she chirped. “It was a totally innocent comment. You know, his response is just another sign that we aren’t very compatible. I broke up with him once before and he talked me into getting back with him. Now I’ll have to break up with him all over again.”

Was she kidding?

After we finished our reps, Terry, a straight-talking former social worker, set her weights down with a sigh. “If you’re going to break up with your boyfriend, Kim,” she said, her expression completely deadpan, “just text him back and tell him it wasn’t an apparition after all, so you won’t need his help.”

Group buffoonery; the best sport of all…and, oh, so therapeutic. Just don’t be looking for me to bare my soul at the gym anytime soon.