There are people who live, eat, and breathe fitness. (Shocker: I am not one of them.) They love to workout. They need to workout. They are not trying to be athletic, they are just athletic beings. This would be Kelly Fadel. Kelly is a certified group fitness instructor as well as a certified Pilates instructor who taught fitness classes at Chestnut Forks Athletic Club.
Yet she gave freely of her time twice a week, in spite of having her toddler daughter, Faith, in tow. Kelly brought in all of her exercise gear: balls, bands, bells, mats, and even the little stepping platforms. She set the tone with music: either soothing and relaxing or upbeat and requiring a lot of movement. Her goal was to help women regain strength and get everything realigned, “as God intended our bodies to be,” she would say. It was her ministry to the women of the church and to anyone else who cared to partake.
Many women who came to Kelly's class were young moms with perfect figures. I wondered why they needed to be there. Then it occurred to me: perhaps that is how they “happened” to have perfect figures in the first place. Then there were women like me.
When I first tried doing a few sit-ups at home, the kids were watching. They laughed and suddenly felt better about whatever pathetic number of sit-ups and pushups they could eek out of their own youthful bodies. Each sit-up I attempted was accompanied by sounds reminiscent of child-birthing scenes that seem to be a requirement in many a movie. These were involuntary sounds. Apparently, they came from me. I needed professional help, and a more supportive environment.
The next morning I determined to drop everything and dash off to Kelly's class. The only equipment I had was a water bottle, so I ransacked my eldest daughter's closet for old sweat pants. (She is several inches taller than I am, so I sometimes get hand-me-ups.) Yanking the sweats on, I hoped there were no obvious holes in them. No time to rifle for socks. Sorry to gross you out, but I snatched up a pair that my husband had conveniently discarded right near the entryway. Dark sweats (blue), dark socks (black) – it worked for me. Getting to class was a priority. If people had to be shocked by little flashes of skin through “holy” sweatpants, or offended by “my” stinky socks, then that was a price I was willing for them to pay. Driving into the church parking lot, I suddenly remembered that I should have brought my second daughter's mat. Too late. After all, I was almost on time for the class. I swiped the big, silvery sun-shield from under the Suburban's seat and dropped my youngest off in the playroom where the church provided childcare. Then, heart pumping from all the preparation and the hurried driving (of course, I didn't speed),
I was now ready for the class.
I was surprised by Kelly's calm demeanor and her bubbly personality. She was gracious about people like me who came in late, even welcoming us for coming at all in the flurry of the morning.
I remember the first time I saw Kelly Fadel at church. She is one of those gorgeous women that people can't help but notice when she enters a room, no matter how spiritual they're trying to be. When I see a woman like this, I suspect she might be vain or snooty or loathsome in some other way. This rarely turns out to be the case, but this first, childish, sour-grapes response seems to be an ingrained, primal instinct. It didn't take long to get to know Kelly, though. Her speech is charmingly Southern, and she is every bit human and fallible. At the end of the class, she often shared her foibles for the week or her struggles with her toddler, and left us in laughter mixed with pain. (The abs had already had a workout by then.)
“Abs are engaged...,” she reminded us often during the class. Kelly's Texan accent came through in each reminder. When she said “engaged” it sounded like she was about to say, “and guys...” She cheered us further with, “Abs are absa-LOOT-ly engaged!” I was amazed that this woman could even talk through these tortuous exercises. I could barely breathe, and even that we were reminded to do in the correct way.
Of course, I could not do any of the toning or strengthening exercises I attempted. I wanted to let Kelly know that these abs had not only been engaged, they had also gotten married and then served as a temporary housing facility for six children. Apparently, they were in rebellion, and had no plans of getting engaged again. Ever.
“Now you float one leg up,” she said as her leg rose effortlessly up. My leg was having separation anxiety and didn't want to leave the floor. It felt more like it was of the ship-sinking variety than the type that planned to float.
There was an exercise where we had to hug ourselves into a bundle and attempt to roll up from a supine position. On repeated attempts, I could only rock high enough to glimpse that everyone else in the class had made it into a seated position, just before tugged me back down into insect-on-its-back position. Since our group was entirely female, I let loose one of my childbirthing shrieks, and finally managed to dodder up. My husband's socks were loose and flopped beyond my toes. It was nice to feel “safe” when even if you were at your worst.
“Don't you worry, Vineeta,” Corlee soothed me. “When I first started these exercises, I couldn't do a single one either. I just went home and cried.” Within a few months, Corlee now could not only keep up with all the exercises, she could even breathe well enough afterwards to give advice.
Corlee Brown is a tall, willowy woman with a razor-sharp wit. She has one of those life-of-the-party types of personalities. If you're around her for any length of time, you're going to be laughing. She's a dozen years my senior, but you would never guess it, because she is in better shape than I have ever been, and her eyes are always bright and full of mischief.
One summer, my husband was teaching a Sunday School class on Bible times, with an emphasis on the history and culture of the era. He spent the entire summer making elaborate PowerPoint slides and taught it like a college course. Every once in a while, it's good to remember why I love this man. There was usually a big group of people in attendance, and as always, you could count on my husband to say something controversial.
He was about to talk about Priapus, the Greek god of fertility, and warned that people of a delicate disposition might be embarrassed by the next slides featuring the deity’s image on ancient coins. Without getting into any graphic detail, suffice it to say that Viagra and male enhancement drugs are not at all modern concepts. “Embarrassed?” Corlee's voice cut in. “I'm excited!” Our entire class erupted in laughter.
After one exercise class, Kelly was discussing nutrition with us, and was giving us pointers on what how she ate a tiny handful of almonds every day. Corlee thought of another potential nutritional pitfall. “What color is your pee, Vineeta?” Corlee suddenly asked. Her face was so earnest and concerned, that I realized that she wasn't joking, as I might have initially believed. Answering such a question in public makes you feel as if you have just held up your urine sample for all the world to behold. “Um...” I hesitated.
“Is it yellow? Is there any color to it?” Corlee pressed the point. I was just glad my kids weren't around. “Well...” my hesitation was taken as a confession. “You need to drink more water, Vineeta,” Corlee dished out her verdict like an oral prescription.
Sadly, the exercise class is no longer offered in our church due to issues with the facility, space, and scheduling conflicts, even though Kelly was willing to continue teaching. Everyone seems to have found alternatives, although I doubt that any are free. The best thing about Kelly's exercise class, in hindsight, was not so much that it was free, or even free-free. It was how free we could be while we were there together.
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