Who Knew?

The reno was supposed to take less than a week.   We disconnected the water supply, and removed the old tub and shower—circa 1990.   Only then did we discover that our sleek new tub was a dud.   Someone had mishandled it during delivery, and a thin but nasty crack ran along one end. Bad news.  Especially when we found out that it would take two weeks to get a replacement tub from the factory in Quebec. Suddenly we weren’t facing a few days without bathing facilities—but weeks!  Desperate times require desperate solutions.

I headed to Spadina and Harbord and forked over 90 bucks plus HST for a licence-to-bathe-- a one-month membership at University of Toronto’s Athletic Centre.    On my first two trips, I only used the shower.   But passing all those fitness machines and an Olympic-sized pool enroute to the showers made me feel guilty.  Surely I should be doing a little exercise when

I’m in the building anyway?   Not to mention that actually using the facilities would give me considerably more bang for my membership buck.  So on my next visit, I did some laps in the slow lane with a chatty octogenarian lady, and a couple of newly-minted swimmers whose efforts left more water on the deck than in the actual pool.  On the next visit I opted for a more land-locked experience, doing hard time on the rowing machine and stationary bike.

Emboldened by the resulting endorphin rush, I decided to explore the labyrinthine building.  It takes up an entire city block.  It has concrete stairwells that lead to more stairwells, and hallways that lead to corridors and yet more hallways.  At the end of one such maze was a huge set of closed wooden doors. A sign above it says “Dance Studio”.  Below it, another sign:  “Do not disturb while class is in progress.”

I noticed a schedule taped to the door.  It indicated that a class led by "Karine", and mysteriously labeled “Fusion” would start in 10 minutes.  I only understand fusion in food-terms. And I haven't done a bouncy-jumpy fitness class in decades. So, I turned and headed back toward the showers.  Then stopped and wondered, "What if I just do this class, whatever it is?”  I sat down in the hall and waited.

 When the door opened, the last class filtered out and I looked in. What a beautiful room!  All windows down one side, and a very shiny floor.   Karine arrived, and I asked what “fusion” is.  She was very enthusiastic and spoke quickly.  I caught something about music, and bars and jumping.  I asked if someone with zero experience could attend.  Karine said “absolutely!” and invited me in. That’s when I noticed all the railings along the walls, and realized that ‘bars’ are actually “barres” -- that we’d be doing some kind of ballet moves.   Paralysis set in.  When I was a kid, I built tree forts while my girlfriends took ballet class. Ballet is SO not my thing. To make matters worse, the other five women in the class all looked like regulars.  Two of them were even talking about classes they’ve attended at the Canadian National Ballet School.  Yikes. There was still time to dash right back out the door and straight to the shower. 

But I willed myself to stop envisaging impending mortification—and stepped up to the barre. 

I found myself doing rudimentary plies and frappes and even some grands ronds de jambs.  Then some jumping plies.  And more things I don’t remember the names of.  My knees hurt.  I kept losing the rhythm.  When others turned, I jumped.  My arms threatened to detach themselves from my body.

The most surprising part of this whole experience?   Believe it or not, I am actually looking forward to more of this torture next week.  Despite my misgivings upfront, it was a strangely exhilarating experience.  Karine was lovely and non-judgemental.  I felt like I achieved something.  And not just a killer work-out.  More importantly, I managed to suppress my instinct to bolt from something potentially humiliating-- something I've rejected my whole life as SO not my thing.  Who knew that the results of our reno would extend so far beyond our bathroom walls?