Feeling it

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling .... fine?"

But I wasn't really sure. 

I was lifting things. Tensing other things. Releasing them all at once. 

I felt like it was going okay.

My daughter was watching. Like a hawk. Pushing me past my comfort level. Out of the nest.

"No-no-no. Not like that," she said with the conviction of a cane-tapping dance instructor ... like Debbie Allen ... in the cinematic adaptation of the glamorous life of students at a famed NYC performing arts high school ... circa 1978.

If this were a dance class, I'd have already failed. I never did figure out whether I was supposed to backpack or floss.

But this is different. This looks familiar. Possible. Do-able, even. 

My new fitness guru has recently turned seventeen; jams dirty socks in between the couch cushions as she's watching TV; leaves half-empty cans of seltzer everywhere, yet can't find the remote control anywhere.

She is also a dedicated participant in all things virtual ... including physical education.

And of course, this girl of mine is my personal hero ... saving me from myself and the infinite indignities I would inflict by surreptitiously joining her virtual gym class from the next room, not nearly as off-camera as I think I am.

"Mom! People could see you!"

Instead, she promises to give me private lessons at a time when no other soul in the world could possibly be watching.

In my case, classes start at 10 p.m., after she's done with homework and most of her friends have shuttered their windows on Snapchat.

I don't mind the late hour. The darker the house is when I crouch on the floor the better. The dust bunnies under the couch won't be as much of a distraction as they would be if I could see them.

Honestly, though, I wasn't prepared for the caliber of teaching my daughter would extend in these private lessons, nor was I ready for how tough she'd be. 

As she guided me through a series of rolling planks, quickly moving from one side and back to the other, she thought she could trust me to carry on for "six minutes" while she ambled away to attend to some important conference call, to which students are apparently not privy.

"After six minutes, start on lunges."

She can't be serious. Six minutes of planking?

I do six repetitions. Two per plank, and call it: per plunked!

She frowns a little and shrugs her shoulders in acceptance.

Squats then?

She stands next to me and demonstrates: feet planted; resistance band, stretches; sit back into your squat; release.

I do exactly as she's instructed.

Or at least I think I have perfectly mirrored her instructions.

"You aren't getting low enough.

You stand like this: feet apart, resistance band above your knees, now deep bend, push your bottom out, sit down and back.

"Now, let's take it from the top. One hundred crunches!"

She can't be serious? 

I'm not sure I'll be feeling fine, tomorrow.