Caliente, as you may know, is the Spanish word for ‘hot,’ although I believe the entire phrase is derived from the Latin root meaning, “45-minutes of grueling exercise forged in the fires of hell.”
And to think, I used to regard myself as an above-average athelete. Cardio Caliente - only ten minutes in – had shattered my confidence and left it cowering in a corner. My obliques may never be the same.
It started innocently enough: I went to my friend’s gym for the purposes of attending spin class (an hour of riding a stationary bike like a madman). She’d said the instructor was fantastic – so good that we needed to get there 45 minutes early in order to secure a spot. Unfortunately, we soon learned that it wasn’t the instructor she thought, and rather one she wasn’t all that impressed with. I hoped for the best.
In the meantime, we noticed a class going on in another room, and I heard her ask, “Do you want to do this instead?” The operative word in that sentence was INSTEAD, so I’m pretty sure I heard it right. I figured she was bummed that the spin class wasn’t going to be taught by the teacher she hoped for, and looking for a quick backup plan.
I agreed – on the condition that it wasn’t a complicated dance aerobics or salsa-type class. I am a terrible dancer. I have no rhythm and am immediately baffled by any and all choreography. I prefer to avoid situations that highlight such shortcomings. The use of ‘caliente’ had me thinking it was either Latin-dance infused or done in a hot room, a la Bikram yoga.
I was right to be worried, I just didn’t catch on fast enough as to why. The first clue should have been the stair stepper thing I had to drag out of a utility closet. It alone weighed 30 pounds. Then came all the other necessary paraphernalia: medicine ball, hand weights, yoga mat, weight bar, and inflated exercise ball.
If that weren’t enough, it was what we did with all this stuff: Staying in a ‘plank’ position while pumping a weight up and down for TWO MINUTES. Leaping in the air and the crouching down and doing a push up…again and again and again. Jumping up and down on alternate legs onto the stepper while pumping weights above our head (I nearly face planted on this one).
And the stuff with the large exercise ball? Unspeakable.
I can only imagine how much I am going to hurt tomorrow.
I may require medical intervention to even get out of bed.
And yet, despite all this, do you want to know the worst of it? I can’t stop thinking about how I’d like to go again and show that class what’s what. I can beat it. I can triumph over it. I am woman, hear me roar (or moan, as the case may be).
It’s sick, and clearly someone needs to perform an intervention…
I neglected to mention that after this, we still went an did an hour of spin! And although it wasn’t awful, the music was sub-par. However, compared with what I’d just been through? It was downright easy.