We switched gyms. Our old fitness center (the one that featured Paula Deen's nutritional wisdom on the tv in the cardio room) wanted twelve gazillion dollars for us to renew, so we decided to forgo the fancy "club" with the spa we never used and the restaurant we never ate at, and jog ourselves over to "Joe's Gym," which charges something like thirty-nine cents a month.
Working out at Joe's Gym is rather like landing in an NFL retirement home--it's a giant open room filled with every type of old-school weight equipment imaginable, all being hefted and pushed and swung around by men who have no visible indent between their ears and their shoulders. Most days, I am the sole patron claiming estrogen as my dominant hormone; I've never once had to wait for the treadmill or the eliptical machine.
My favorite part about Joe's though, is the Zoomba class. I've never taken it, but wow does it make me happy. You see, the class is taught by a guy (possibly Joe?) who is somewhere in his 60s, I'd guess. Joining Joe are seven to ten other Italian men ranging in age from 40-70. Up goes the volume on the stereo, and Joe shows the boys how to shake their thang (thangs?) to remastered club tracks that range from Depeche Mode to Kool & The Gang. It's like watching Tony Soprano and his gang doing aerobics. (In my head, I call them Paulie, Silvio, and Vito).
Add to that the looming seven-foot presence of a former NBA All-Star's brother, and a guy who looks like the punching bag Mike Tyson trained on, and I feel like I'm in the six-degrees of separation hall of fame. Granted, it's the mob division, but hey, for thirty-nine cents a month, I'll take it.
I mean, how could Paula Deen compete with that?