And Right Here is Where You Start Paying...In Sweat

The last time I lived in DC -- make that, the last time I lived in the same apartment building in DC -- I used to frequent the brand-spanking new Washington Sports Club down the street in the Northern end of Dupont Circle. It was a good club, with lots of fun classes. My favorite at the time was a Step class taught by one Andre. Andre was Cuban-American, seemingly gay, and wholly awesome. The class had catchy new wave music, and Andre used to sing along, in between instructions on what to do next and shouts of encouragement. I can still remember it all like it was yesterday.

For the uninitiated, a step class -- formally, step aerobics class -- involves stepping up and down on a box in time to the music. Stepping up and down doesn't sound hard, and well, it isn't. The tricky part is when overambitious instructors start to add spins and hops and stuff like that. So it's almost like dancing, but not that technically difficult.

Stepping has fallen out of favor in recent years. It was popular in the early 90's, an exercise era best defined as "Post-Fonda, Pre-everyone-and-their-brother-decides-to-run-a-marathon." In fact, by the time I was attending Andre's class, it was probably already passe. But I liked it, and it worked, and eventually I moved on to spinning and even signed up for a half marathon (which I neither trained for nor attended). And I haven't looked back.

So it was with a wisp of nostalgia that I found myself this evening, heading off to a step class at that very same Washington Sports Club, secretly hoping that against all odds, Andre was still teaching there some 10 years later. The class was one of two step classes on the schedule, and it's now actually called "Ultimate Step." I figured that the "Ultimate" was just a marketing gimmick designed for the Gen-Y exerciser, sort of like "Extreme Doritos," the chip for the Gen-Y couch potato.

I anxiously waited outside the studio for class to start and made small talk with a few fellow exercisers. I asked two young, and very athletic girls whether the class was hard, my one nod to the "ultimate" nature of the description. I expected them to tell me it was fine, and I would be fine. But no. Both of them hesitated a moment and said "Well, yeah. It's really hard."

I went in anyway, figuring how hard could it be? Right next to me was a 70-year-old woman, and in front of her was a guy I would bet used to be a marine. I mean, a marine may be able to run a marathon, but he wouldn't be here if the choreography was complicated.

I could not have been more wrong. The class turned out to be chock full of dance moves, and worthy of its "ultimate" title. I couldn't keep up.

The fact that the 70-year-old woman was wearing a thong leotard (with leggings underneath) should have been the tip-off that something was erroneous with my logic. This woman could dance. Five minutes into the class, it was clear I was in trouble, but she was like a candidate for the next season of Dancing With the [Septuagenarian] Stars. She was good.

Meanwhile, I was sure that with all the fancy dance moves, the ex-Marine would be floundering with me. But I looked over, and he was doing fine. More than fine. Wait a minute -- did he just execute a perfect kick-ball-change when the instructor called one out of the blue? For realz. I kid you not. At that moment, I was sure of two things: (1) They must be teaching something new in boot camp these days; and (2) I was toast.

The class only got worse after that. I resorted to marching in place, while pretending to study the moves of everyone around me. Fortunately, I wasn't huffing and puffing for breath, so that wasn't embarrassing. Just the fact that I was bright red and marching in place, while everyone else was twirling and stepping and everything else.

But then, about ten minutes before the end of class, something fell into place. I was starting to get it. Well, not all of it. But a good 20 percent, and at least my marching in place was in time to the beat. I no longer felt like a chubby and awkward 30-something novice exerciser. At that moment, I was long and lean and powerful. I felt that the Ghosts of Fitness Past -- including Andre, Jane Fonda, and Debbie Allen during her speech at the beginning of Fame -- were looking after me as I arabesqued effortlessly onto the step.

At that moment, I felt capable of doing anything. I could run a triathlon. I could climb Mount Everest. I could lift a car with my bare hands. I could even figure out all the things wrong in those pictures where six things are different than the other picture. It was perfection.

. . . And then the moment passed. Somehow I forgot the few things I thought I had just mastered, and found myself so tired that I couldn't even march in place anymore. So I just stood there kind of bopping my head to the music for the rest of class. Oh, and I started coughing uncontrollably because some water I drank went down the wrong tube, thus causing the few people who weren't already giggling about my performance to turn and look at me.

But that one moment. . . that one ultimate moment. It's enough to make me go back next week.