Punk Rock Aerobics

Last summer while I was in Columbus, I was introduced to Punk Rock Aerobics.  The Surly Girl Saloon, a bar in the Short North, offers a free class once a week.  It’s led by three women who do it just for kicks.  They begin each class with a disclaimer about their amateur status and a reminder that we shouldn’t sue them.  At the end of each class everyone is offered a complimentary can of beer.

I started the class with new friend Michael.  As a 12 year old, Michael climbed a tree to read a book instead of taking out the trash and accidentally touched an electric line that sent him flying.  He fell to the ground screaming.  His next memory is coming in and out of consciousness in an ambulance and then a lengthy recovery at Children’s Hospital.   Twenty years later, he had a burn scar across his thigh but no super powers. 


Three weeks into Punk Rock Aerobics, Michael decided the class wasn’t for him.  In spite of being abandoned in a room of sweaty girls, I chose to stick it out.  We did moves called “The Lead Singer” and “Beat on the Brat” to the music of the Sex Pistols, the Breeders, and the Ramones. 


After one particularly grueling class, I drove to Kroger to get a bite to eat.  I wandered the aisles of the supermarket trying to find something satisfying and healthy.  I passed a display of Entenmann’s cinnamon rolls.  Jumbo sized.  I have a weakness for Cinnabons and can’t seem to manage to get through an airport without buying one.  I decided to pick up a box of the similarly delicious Entenmann’s just to hold onto while I pushed my cart through the store.  For comfort.  As a reward for not ditching the class as my friend had.


My plan was to have the box in the child seat of my shopping cart so that I could fantasize about their sweet glaze and sticky cinnamon while I filled a container at the salad bar with lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, celery, etc.   Afterwards, I would remove the rolls from my cart before checking out.  I rationalized that the pleasure was in the memory, not the experience itself.


When I got home I set my salad on the kitchen counter, filled a glass with water, pulled a plate out of the dishwasher and heated up one of the cinnamon rolls in the microwave.   Some plans don’t work out as intended.  Something came over me as I was checking out of Kroger.  I hadn’t pushed past the Entenmann’s display on my way through the store and never had the chance to replace the box.  And I didn’t want to be one of “those people” who unload stuff in the gum and magazine racks.  I ate the heated roll before even opening my salad.  Punk Rock Aerobics was hard.  I was hungry.  The roll was delicious.


My salad wasn’t bad either.  I ate it dry, without any salad dressing.  You know, because of all the extra calories and corn syrup they put in there.