People surround themselves with an imaginary force field that gets tested in places such as shopping malls and crowded elevators.
It’s called personal space and invading it is a no-no.
Recently, I was ordered to breach that etiquette at an aerobics class.
First, to label this specific hour “cardio” is asinine. It’s more like waterboarding.
Fifteen minutes in, I’m ready to surrender my savings account number and key to the house. Just when you thought you’ve finished an exercise, the female instructor says, “Now, 40 more.” My glutes are so sore from the lunges that I can’t sit without wincing.
So as I’m bent over in misery, struggling to catch my breath, I hear these three words.
“Grab a partner.”
The task was this: Carry someone piggyback to a tree about 10 yards away, switching payloads for the trip back.
I’m the only dude in a class with about seven women. So two questions pop in my head.
How will I hold on to her front? And how will I, in loose fitting shorts, feel on her back?
All ended well.
I climbed aboard gently, mindful of my man saddle. The dismounts were clean. We finished first.