I do a lot of exercise. Consider this less a brag and more a heralding of middle age. If I don’t do yoga, my back hurts. If I don’t do weights, my back hurts. If I don’t do reggaeton, well, that kind of makes my back hurt.
I prefer class-based workouts because I’m naturally lazy and respond well to authority. No matter the modality, offensively attractive fitness instructors wield numbers as weapons to torment and torture me.
Numbers have always been a source of struggle for me. I can barely add up, frequently forget my own phone number, and yesterday I messed up an interview time with someone in Tennessee, despite using a time conversion app.
Why can’t they just be letters?
Unfortunately, there is no escaping the shapely little bastards, and in few corners do numbers taunt me more than the fitness industry.
“What’s your BMI?”
“How far can you run?”
“How much do you bench?”
Whoa, sir, I’m just trying to order a smoothie.
In every exercise class, from boxing to ballet, step to spin, Lycra-clad young people with AI-worthy abs personally victimise me with numbers.
“Eight reps to go!” sings a painfully perky barre teacher, repeating several numbers twice, even thrice, in the countdown.
“Holding for 3, 2 …” breathes a tattooed yogi, stopping to adjust someone’s twisted triangle, while I wait for “1” and wish for death.
“Only 30 more seconds,” promises a rare male Reformer instructor, keeping us in forearm plank for seven more hours.
Why are they like this? Who hurt them? Was it Les Mills? I know hurt people hurt people, but why do they have to hurt me, specifically? All I offer them is love. And a strong core.
The fitness industry has a lot to answer for: untenable beauty standards, intolerable influencers, toxic gym culture, Zumba. Misinformation is rampant, scam products abound, and don’t get me started on the cult of wellness. Must its henchmen also torture us with numbers and lies?
If they say eight reps to go, there should be one rep per count, not two, nor four. If they count down from three, it should be illegal to have a chat between two and one. And 30 seconds means 30 actual seconds, measured by a clock, not a vibe. I’m not requesting much; I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I’m just a girl, deadlifting in front of a boy, asking him to count correctly.
(Also, it turns out Tennessee has two different time zones, so that’s on them.)
