There I was, a 6 foot, 265 pound blob of 40 year old
insecurity and bruised ego, struggling to keep up with the rest
of the aerobics class. Sweat stung my eyes and pain radiated
from my bad knee — neither sensation was particularly noticable
compared to the pounding of my heart and the gasping sounds of my
labored breathing. Pride was the only thing which kept me on my
feet and moving.

I could tell that the instructor was watching me,
waiting for me to collapse — or perhaps trying to figure out
what I was doing in her class. It wasn’t an advanced aerobics
class, but it was more than what a beginner like me should have
been in. I signed up knowing only that I needed some structured
exercise — no one told me what I was getting into, or, more
probably, I wasn’t paying attention. Now, I was too proud to
admit that I was in a little over my head. Yes, the instructor,
a rather nicely put together brunette who appeared to be about 19
or 20, was definitely looking at me.