Not Quite a Trilogy

So, Tuesday night's ball class followed the pattern of Monday night's rower incident, in that the class was marked by my inability to not fall off instruments of exercise.

Let me explain the exercise we were doing. You lie on your side in a straight line. No leg bending, hips in line with head, please, you should just be able to see your toes. Alright so far (well, I say alright, but in all honesty, I actually even manage to find this bit a little trying - balancing on your side with everything in a straight line is not as easy as it sounds, you know. Seriously - have a go - and try not to fall over for five minutes - I defy you to be able to do it - and if you can, then damn you and I insist on not believing you). So, I am lying on my side in a slightly wobbly manner - but, even if I do say so myself, I am not doing too badly. However that is not the exercise. The exercise is to be clinging on to the jupiter-sized ball with your ankles, while lifting both feet in the air (maintaining your straight-linedness all the while) - it's good for your bum and thighs, apparently. I say apparently, because my bum and thighs didn't feel a thing.

I think my ball was sabotaged. Every time I put it between my ankles and then re-assumed my straight line, the ball gained a life of its own. Not a second after re-assumption of straight line, I found that the ball started rolling over, thus dragging me with it and me ending up on my back, my ball rolling off into the class full of serious balancers. Of course this made me giggle. A lot. Which is not approved of in the ball class. Why am I always the only one giggling all evening?

So I felt this duet of falling-offs could not bode well for Wednesday night's aerobics class (new class - I've gone class mad).

Thankfully, however there was no falling over in aerobics. But aerobics is actually evil. All that squatting and grapevine-ing and pulsing. Filthy business.