Every great story has a hero and a villain. At least every great story I enjoy. The villain I’m about to paint for you is prime-evil. It makes Lord Voldemort look like a kitten. Darth Vedar? A clown. That fucking Gollum guy from Lord of the Rings? He’s about as scary as Papa Smurf compared to my nemesis.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking about the BOSU Ball.

I recently joined a gym. And by recently I mean 2 weeks ago. After years of making babies and having c-sections and eating each meal like it’s my last and drinking all the wine I could find, I am trying to lose some weight and get in shape.

I’ve found group classes to be my jam and I’ve been enjoying getting my sweat on. At least I was, until yesterday.

Yesterday, I finished a 30 minute Kickboxing class and because I really like the instructor, decided to stick around for her next class. Strength training. Thinking back to that moment I should have noticed the fit, toned, and trim physiques of the other people entering class. I should have realized the chick who had just parked next to me looked like a fucking supermodel in Under Armour boy-shorts and a sports bra, while I had smushed my milky-white-whale-belly into some Capri leggings and a maternity tank-top. Hindsight is a bitch. And so is that damn balance ball.

Well, the purpose of that BOSU ball is to screw with your center of gravity, because it’s a freaking squishy, round object and forces you to utilize your core muscles. My core muscles have been in sleepy la-la land for about a decade; core muscles on Quaaludes, if you will, so just looking at that thing pained me.

But that’s when the real fun started.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my class instructor probably does a night shift as a dominatrix, cause homegirl gets off on inflicting pain. As she demonstrated the technique of standing on the ball, while lifting weights and then squatting, I couldn’t help but think, “Holy shit, dear lord, please don’t let me fall off this ball.” Gravity beat out my prayers.

Then she had us lunging with one leg, while the other leg was on the ball. I don’t think anyone appreciates how difficult it is for me to walk on flat land. Trying to exercise with this crazy ball under my foot just wasn’t working. But everyone else looked like they were born with this ball attached to the bottom of their feet. Assholes.

That’s when we started with the floor work.

If I thought standing on the ball was hard, I quickly changed my tune because push ups were harder. And planking, and sit-ups. At one point I believe my entire body had just burst into flames. At the time it was a welcome idea. If I was on fire I would surely have an excuse to get out of this class.

But I didn’t fucking quit.

I was embarrassed and awkward, fat and panting, but I had done it. I had completed 30 minutes of torture. That ball is my Thunderdome.

I decided to skip the gym today, because it hurt to use the bathroom this morning.


I’ll be back.

But first, can you help me get up from this chair?



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