A self-ordained professor's tongue too serious to fool

As a Valentine's Day present to my wife, I agreed to accompany her to an exercise class at her all-female gym. As the gym was interviewing guys for a soon-to-be-opened co-ed location and there'd be males there anyway, they extended an invitation to the husbands, boyfriends, brothers, fathers of its members: "Come... and be tortured."

I'm sure part of reason behind Rachel asking me to show off just how fit she is. Unfortunately, going I would be showing off just how unfit I am. I have no trouble admitting that my wife is my physical superior. She's been working out for awhile. She can run further and faster, push more, squat, curl, whatever. Some people might think this speaks to my own laziness. I like to think of it as "progress."

We arrived early and I suggested staking out a spot at the back of the room. If I was going to embarrass myself (and, let's face it, that was assuredly going to happen) I would like a little privacy. At the front of the class, not only would I be SEEN, I'd run the risk of being singled out or, worse, asked to do something. My intention was to remain as inconspicuous as possible, no easy feat in a room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that surrounded the room.

Most of the other guys were the previously mentioned interviewees. As potential instructors, these fellows seemed relaxed and at ease. They looked fit and confidently stretched their muscles to warm up. I, on the hand, embarrassed by both my lack of development and ability, stubbornly remained in my fleece sweatshirt. Despite the six-pack confidence of the guys, I was reassured by the variety of female body type - everything from pepper-pot to super model. Eventually, after nearly passing out from the heat, I removed my sweatshirt.

When the instructors entered the room, I knew I was in deep trouble. One was pleasant... the other one scared me. She was short (like 5 foot); she had short, bright red hair with blond streaks and she was built like a tank. She sported an Ultimate Fighting Championship sweatshirt and fingerless cage-fighter gloves. She walked around the room, sizing up the men who had dared enter her lair. "And who do you belong to?" she asked as she squeezed my hand. Afraid my voice would crack, betraying my fear, I nodded at my wife.

The music started and people spread out a safe arm's (or leg's) distance from their closest neighbour. After a brief warning about watching out for other people's feet, we began with running on the spot and some simple punching combinations. I was all right for a little while, but was soon lost in a Busby Berkley nightmare of punching and kicking. The little red tank occasionally came down from the front to "encourage" those of us who appeared hopelessly lost. While I never managed to follow the routine, I tried to keep moving, relying heavily on my wife's under-the-breath directions ("Go left") to keep me from ploughing into someone or, worse, being ploughed into.

After 35 minutes or so, the little red tank instructed us on something she called "The street fighting head punch."

"The punch starts over your head and comes all the way down to just past your knees. Feet apart. Use your non-punching hand like your holding him by the collar or the hair. It's like you're punching some sucker who's on the ground in the face. Now I want to see full extension on those punches. No wimpy shoulder level punches - full extension. Or I'm coming out there to get you!"

Needless to say, my punches were extended as fully as humanly possible. Anything to stave off the wrath of the little red tank.

After 50 minutes of high-energy aerobics, we "cooled off" with the most painful push up exercises I have ever done. The little red tank shouted to us as she took the push up position, "Now I want to see all you guys on your toes. Proper form." Now I can do push ups pretty well, but I was just this side of heart-attack city. Still, I was more afraid of the little red tank than a coronary episode. I started out on my toes and started doing the push ups.

"Don't," I heard Rachel whisper to me. "You'll kill yourself. Do them on your knees." Worried that knee push ups (or "girls push ups") would incur the tank's wrath, I looked up to see if she could spot me from her position. I scanned the room and found none of the other guys, not a one of them, was doing toe push ups. Every single one of them was on his knees. Confident that there were 6 or 7 guys closer to the front that the tank could pick on if she chose, I dropped to my knees.

As we were driving home, I told my wife how impressed with her I was. She regularly does two classes on Saturday and here I was as close to suicide as I've ever come after one.