Sometimes being "Wise" is Knowing When to Quit

All them, no me!

Being grown is knowing your limits. My recent toe dip into yet another dance-exercise-session-on-steroids should have never been. (I do not have a positive track record in gyms; too many looks of not belonging sent my way, the proverbial you’re not skinny so why are you here, but how are you to get skinny if you can’t work out? Some of you know what I’m talking about.)

Any time your first reaction is, “tha’ f*ck?!” from step number one, you know something is wrong.

In all my glory

From the get go, that little voice inside said, “Hey, middle aged, ‘moderately obese’ lady, this is a bad idea,” but in keeping with the new me, which is trying to make new friends and try new things so I can shake the feeling that life is passing me by, I went. Knowing I wouldn't know the convoluted steps and could potentially be so utterly sore I couldn’t brush my afro, or even my teeth, I went anyway. Knowing my oversized cut off tee and simple black dance shorts outfit was not cute, but practical, I went anyway. Knowing I was years older and pounds heavier than most in attendance in spite of my tightly toned quads, hamstrings and calves, I went anyway. And somehow I knew, going anyway was setting myself up for failure.

In knowing it was going to be a trial of a day, I planned my wake up with enough time for a protein rich breakfast with a hint of carbs, all accented with coffee with a touch of creamer. Ready to go 30 minutes early, I tried to self-talk myself into believing this was going to be the opposite of what my gut was telling me.

I was picked up in a convertible of the likes my teacher salary will never be able to afford without committing a crime or dawning the pole: neither of which are possible because a) I’m a good girl and b) I’m too fat for the pole. Sitting in the windblown backseat while a long haired, big diamond ringed, suburban princess in the passenger seat snapped  and posted selfies, should have told me leaping out of the car at the next stop light would have been a better choice than seeing it through. Yet, I went anyway as self-consciousness and apprehension kicked into high gear, not quite as strong as walking down a shady-looking alley, but enough to raise my spidey senses.

As we arrived and were given legit tickets and the type of paper bracelets you get when you purchase limitless rides at the Fair, I spotted the waiver about promotional filming. “Aww hell,” is all that popped into my head and I noted the number of “long haired, tight abbed, smiling excited, perfect” people prancing about along with the colorful tees that could match a bag of Skittles. At that point, I wished I could turn and run.

Although a plethora of ages, shapes and colors were represented, they had a few things I didn't. They'd done this before so they knew the insane step combinations and codes that went along with them and this was not their first time exercising at this level in countless years like it was for me. The hyped music and pulsating beat helped me survive the first class with success at a few steps and not suffering cardiac arrest. It was even a little fun and I knew I could out technique many there if I’d just known where my damned feet were supposed to be. Let me freestyle these fools and I’d own many of them, even at 44.

Although I survived the first of three classes, my calf tightened as it reminded me that it had been less than a year since I tore said muscle and had donned a stylish “boot” and crutches for over a month. My cut off Mardi Gras tee was drenched and probably showcased the fat and plain white sports bra underneath. Tears fought to escape out of pure frustration. “Resilience,” I told myself. I ask my students to fight through the tough times so I was up to try the second class. Every muscle in my body began to let me know how much it resented this and promised it would be waking me up as I slept just 12 hours later. The step combinations for this second class now included boxing moves making this class harder than the first.Harder? Really? WTF? And...they were filming a promo video so everyone affiliated was going “ham” for the camera.  Punch, step, quick three steps, half turn, knee, ‘uggh.” Extra enthusiastic grunts, cheers, punches and grinds to my just trying to follow the footwork.That’s 

when I hit the wall.

So I did it. I quit. A word I never let creep into my vocabulary. But unlike when I was younger, this time, quitting was the right thing to do. Why put myself through that hell? I'm not going to lose 50 pounds in one afternoon. I don't care what these people think of me and I have errands to run and groceries to buy anyway. So, I walked out. At first it was to get some air, then, my sanity. I had nothing to prove, had tried and saw quickly that this class on this day wasn’t for me. Is it rational or reasonable to expect a yellow belt to face a black belt on the mat? Or for a 5th grader to take AP English? Why should an overweight, albeit cute and sassy, middle aged lady who only knows trails take a class from a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo wannabe and expect to be a star?

Peace out, yo!

All-in-all, knowing yourself and knowing your limits is part of being wise. Knowing that I could “hang,” but not go beastmode was a given, but repeatedly, three classes worth with the best of the best? When I summoned my chariot to pick me up (my husband), he laughed, yet was on his way without question. He knew I’d given it my best and that his wife is not a quitter.  He could relate to my frustration without question and simply suggested I ice my calf, take some motrin and drink lots of water to stem a fast recovery. Tears of laughter ran down his face as I gave a play by play complete with a pain provoking reenactment. He was proud of me for trying. Not more proud than I was of myself, however. “In my day,” I still wouldn’t have competed with those people. That’s not who I am. Hit the dance floor for three hours, even now, in heels to boot, try me bi-atch! Hike a mountain, lets go. And write, don't get me started.

You see, wisdom and being grown are knowing who you are, what you are and what you believe. It doesn’t matter who is or isn’t in your corner, it’s about that voice inside. The ability to march forth or throw in the towel, without guilt or shame, is what defines a person. Head high, marching your happy ass right out of a situation may be what’s called for. No shame in your game is what being grown is truly about.

So will I go back, maybe to a class dominated by mere mortals. I will never be that person on the poster, but that doesn't mean I can’t pack a mean punch, kick and booty shake. Until next time, or not...I bid that shit adieu.