Water Aerobics Drama

Dude. There was some insanity at water aerobics tonite. I am not dicking around. I never expected that such mayhem could occur in a setting during which I follow commands including, "Now do the rocking horse" and "Hop like a frog." But it did. So even though I could continue my streak of making all my readers gag by describing in great detail the approximately 400 broken blood vessels I have on my face on account of a migraine/empty stomach/prenatal vitamin-induced party that had me unexpectedly hugging my toilet last night, I will tell you about water aerobics drama instead. I'm gonna cut you all some slack. You can probably even safely eat a snack while reading this tale.

So anyhow, water aerobics. Now, I believe I may have mentioned in passing that the instructor is an older lady. I'd say she's 70, plus or minus 5 years. She looks pretty good for her age. She takes the water aerobics very seriously. She strikes me as one of those tough broads who has militantly eaten a bowl of fiber-rich cereal, half a grapefruit, and half a cup of decaf every morning for the past 50 years, and has forced her husband to do the same, even though he'd probably really prefer a pastry every now and then, and is forced to occasionally "run some errands" so he can get his hands on a bear claw. So, yes, she's a badass.

Now, being a she-beast, I have taken to positioning myself in the way back of the class, in the deepest water, since I have like 9 inches on most ladies, and they of course need to be in the shallow water in order to survive. This means I'm kind of alone and as far as possible from the instructor. So we started our warm-up stretches tonite, and we were stretching our necks. Given that my neck has been flirting with complete immobility since Saturday when my recent bout with migraine hell flared up, I was seriously concentrating on stretching the bastard. My eyes were closed and I was really focusing on my neck muscles. (Yes, occasionally I do focus on things other than screaming and/or swearing.) So I was off in happytown, and all of a sudden I heard screaming. My eyes flew open, and I saw that Instructor Hardcore had her arms flailing in front of her and was violently yelling at the water aerobicizers. She screamed the following:

"Okay, I don't get angry very often, but you've pushed me to lose my temper! I've been biting my tongue for a couple weeks now, but I have to say something! You people need to stop talking! I can't concentrate or hear myself as I try to count out these exercises! You've got music going and you're all visiting with each other. You need to focus on these exercises. If you're not concentrating on this, YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO GET IN SHAPE!!!!!!!!"

She was fucking furious. This was a full-throttle scream, no shit. She had never previously done anything other than scowl and count and command. I didn't see this shit coming in the middle of my focused neck stretching. Woof. You just don't expect to be snapped out of your zen mode and into the world of the red-faced screaming grapefruit eater.

Now, I must back up and provide some information on what I suspect to be the impetus for her rage. The class consists of approximately 5 women who are still pining for Woodrow Wilson. Then there are about 15-20 middle aged ladies, some of whom fly solo and some of whom generally chat with each other quietly in groups of 2 or 3. Then there is another girl roughly my age, and me. This, until about two weeks ago, when a new rat pack of mid-50ish ladies showed up and started spiking the punch with their loud and crazy. These ladies appear to be of a socioeconomic status above the norm in our vicinity, based on the Lexus SUVs they roll up in, the maintenance level required to sustain the hair/nails/makeup/botox they are rocking, and their general discussions of travel/dining/entertaining that I've overheard. These are the type of women who act like they own the place as soon as they walk into it, even though it's water aerobics attended by people with canes instead of happy hour at their usual watering hole. So anyhow, when these broads showed up last week, they took to laughing like hyenas through the entire class. Laughing, joking, singing, mocking the various "moves," and in general fucking around. It's not a really major stretch to imagine that these hot mamas are the source of Instructor Hardcore's angst.

So Instructor Hardcore blew her stack. Apparently this had never happened before, because even the old timers' eyes bulged out of their sockets. Returning to the roots of my academic legacy, I wanted to sheepishly raise my hand and say, "I was taking the stretching of my neck incredibly seriously." But I did not. I just gulped and moved on with the business at hand. The Rat Pack of old hotties, however, did not. No. They commenced acting like a bunch of junior high boys all crazy on pheromones and energy drinks. They essentially started acting out every single expression of water aerobics anarchy they could muster. While we jogged in the water, they acted like maniacs and ran splashing like lunatics. When we did jumping jacks, they clapped their hands as loudly as possible. When we did various exercises with our arms out of the water, they did dance moves with their arms instead. When we passed each other doing various things back and forth across the pool, they mockingly shushed each other. When they mixed shit up on account of their own dickheadedness, they rolled their eyes and muttered, "God, I just did that one!" They giggled and snorted at every possible opportunity. It was really quite a spectacle. I'm surprised no one busted out an armpit fart.

Not to be a stick in the mud, but I found the whole display pretty pathetic and disrespectful. This class is probably the only thing keeping some of the elderly arthritic participants mobile, for heaven's sake. It's not like it's a sacred church service or anything that requires absolute silence, but it is kind of shitty to show up to a place where many others have been faithfully coming for, like, decades, and hijack the whole show with your "Isn't this class fucking hilarious?" attitude. Lord knows I'm not unfamiliar with such social recklessness as uncontrollable laughing jags at funerals, but the atmosphere of this class is just not conducive to this kind of hijinx, and these ladies, although pleasant enough to me, kind of made it clear that they're jerks with their intentional displays of mockery after having been called out on fucking up the vibe for a bunch of sore people.

So you could feel the tension in the joint as these women continued to act like jackoffs and as Instructor Hardcore abruptly switched exercises whenever they started clapping loudly in protest. Finally, we were at the wind-down part of the evening, and the clandestine boom box
(which one participant told me Instructor Hardcore hates, but which another random participant had started bringing anyhow), started belting out none other than everyone's favorite Jimmy Buffett tune, Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw. Of course the Rat Pack started hyperventilating with amusement, snickering loudly, and ultimately singing along. The aged ladies looked like they were going to just let themselves drown on account of their horror. Instructor Hardcore's brow just furrowed to new depths and she pressed on through some hip swiveling. At this point, I was ready to choke out on the tension in the place, and I just focused on the water noisily entering the drain that happened to be in my line of vision. I really wanted to die. It was just so freaking awkward, man. I thought someone would be bloodied before that song finally ended, there was so much water aerobics rage up in that mother. Then the owner of the boom box got out of the pool before class was over, unplugged it, and went off to the locker room. This inspired one member of the Rat Pack to keep loudly singing My Girl, the tune that was playing when the thing was shut off, at the top of her lungs for at least 2 minutes in one final act of defiance. As this was occurring, another member of the Rat Pack noisily said, "I'm done with this," and stomped off to the locker room before we'd done our final stretches. At last, it was over, and Instructor Hardcore just sternly said, "I'll see you Monday."

Oh, shitty. I wonder if the Rat Pack will be returning. It will be interesting to see how this continues to play out if they do. Perhaps there will be chicken fights involved? Who knows. I'm pretty sure that for me personally this can only end with some disturbing pregnant sex dreams involving the pair of alarmingly good-looking 17-year-olds who are our "lifeguards," and who stare at my giant belly every time I enter or exit the pool with these slightly embarrassed looks on their faces that seem to say, "Dude, I bet she puts out." But we won't get into that.

So, yes, there was some water aerobics drama tonite. And if you were wondering, my neck still hurts like a bitch.