Monday 22 August 2011

Deafness and exercise

Today I feel exhausted. This is mainly because I spent rather a lot of last night sleepwalking... From what I can remember anyway.

The first time, I woke up in the hallway, turning on the light, heart hammering.

I went back to bed.

The second time, I woke up in the hallway, convinced someone had set my neighbour's bikes on fire and she was yelling.

The reality when I came around was a quiet flat and no fire.

And the last occasion saw me waking by the bedroom window, where in my dreams the garden was totally different and at that moment was overrun by hooded rebels.

And that is what you get from following news coverage of Libya just before going to sleep.

Anyway, I had a quite marvelous weekend, if you don't count the bit where I went for a run straight after eating breakfast and it nearly killed me. I am not a natural runner. And on a full stomach, I have the physical aptitude of a drunk foal, on an ice rink.

Saturday saw a fun day with the Singing Swede and GBman while Sunday saw the most boring spinning class on earth followed by a fab lunch with the Singing Swede and even more fab birthday dinner for London Cousin 2.

But let's get back to the spinning class, where the instructor is actually deaf.

Now, this on the one hand is brilliant. She was incredibly visual with her instructions so I always knew what was going on, but she also thought interval training should be done in intervals of 15 minutes. A hill climb for 15 minutes to Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd on repeat? I would rather have stuck pins under my toenails.

But, knowing the class was only 45 minutes, I thought, ‘No, no, I can do this’ until she announced it was an hour-long class and we were about to do another 15 minute hill climb. I’m afraid I didn’t stick around to see what delightful music this was to – probably the Funeral March or something else as equally inspiring – and instead I went and stretched my hill-climb ravaged legs on the matting next to all the weight lifting, grunting people.

But it got me thinking… was her class bad because she couldn’t hear how diabolical the music was, or because she had diabolical taste in music?

Did she do long intervals to minimize her interaction with us, or did she just think boring us to death was the way to create a fitness utopia?

Either way, I have no intention of ever going back to find out. I’m going to stick to my giant, ginger-haired spinning instructor at my work gym who I have a secret crush on. He looks a bit like a gorilla on a toy bike but picks the best music and inspires me to pedal my little legs off. And he does all that, and I’ve never heard a word he’s said!

Happy Monday peeps



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