Several months ago I got my group fitness certification. The sole reason I got this group fitness certification was so that I could instruct a stroller fitness class on base. Stroller Strides this is not, but it’s better than nothing.
I started teaching back in March. And all of a sudden I had this new identity. I was no longer just a Stay-At-Home Mom or Navy Wife or Blogger Extraordinaire or whatever else you fine readers think of me. I was now a Fitness Instructor.
Every Monday and Friday morning my fellow moms and I gather at a park, let our children run around unsupervised while we lunge and squat and crunch and whatnot, and I channel my inner Jillian Michaels and shout at them all to, “PUSH THROUGH THE PAIN!”
Not really. I’m not that intense.
Here’s the thing. I don’t look like a legit fitness instructor.* Well, unless your fitness instructors eat ice cream every night. Then maybe I look like a fitness instructor. But you know who I’m talking about – the fitness instructors with -5% body fat that walk around wearing booty shorts showing off their insanely muscular thighs while drinking protein shakes and talking about how many reps they just did. I don’t look like that kind of fitness instructor. I don’t even own booty shorts.
So if I can’t look the part, I should act the part, right? Try to be a paragon of healthy, fit living so I’m not a total charlatan? Sure. Right.
But that’s just not me. The other night I was shopping at the mini-mart on base. And who did I run into but a woman who had just started coming to my class. This was only my third time meeting her. The first was at stroller class, the second was at
Booze Fest 2013 Book Club, and then this time, at the mini-mart. And what was I buying?
In case the picture is hard to make out, that’s three bottles of wine, a bag of chips, and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. And that, my friends, is how you embarrass yourself as a fitness instructor.
Oh, I had also left Elisabeth in the cart, unsupervised, at the end of the aisle while I was perusing the wine selection. And that, my friends, is how you embarrass yourself as a mom.
*Before people that know me start protesting, “Diana, what are you talking about, you’re totally fit!” and whatever – Yeah, I know. I’m not trying to be falsely modest. I mean, I know I’m decent shape (even though my yoga class would tell me otherwise). I’m just not hardcore athlete/personal trainer/fitness instructor fit. And frankly, if that would require giving up carbs, I don’t want to be.