Editor's Note:The Resolution

Let me tell you about my first step aerobics class.

I was in my twenties and, like all 20-somethings, I was thin. Problem was, I lived in Los Angeles, where any woman who weighs more than 100 pounds automatically qualifies for a spot in the hippo exhibit at the L.A. Zoo. So I decided to get fit.

My company offered all employees a health-club benefit: $50 a month paid directly to the gym of our choice. This was a long time ago, when nobody except people in L.A. went to gyms. It was also a heap of cash, so I could join the fancy-schmancy Gym-To-The-Stars only 15-minutes (and a world) away from my (crummy) apartment.

I promptly went shopping and bought a pile of aerobics outfits—those little thong things that looked so good on Jane Fonda (note: I do not now nor have I ever looked like Jane Fonda)—and a pair of pink sneakers.

I was ready.

I waltzed into the 6 a.m. class—which in and of itself was a miracle, since I neither waltz nor do anything else at 6 a.m.—and looked around. Standing in the middle of the mirror-paneled room were four women. I'll call them Miffy, Muffy, Kiki and Lala. All blonde. All leg. They looked at me as though the star attraction from the aforementioned hippo exhibit had just strode into their midst.

One of them points me in the direction of the steps and weights. I have no clue what to do with them, so I mimic Miffy and the gals: I grab a platform, four "steps" to place under it, and a couple of bright red weights, which turned out to weigh eight pounds—each. I assemble the whole creation directly in back of the instructor's step.

Now for those of you who have never done a step class or lifted a weight in your life, let me clue you in to a little fact: beginners should use only the platform until they get the hang of a step work-out; four steps (two on each side) underneath are only for the advanced and the crazy. And eight pound weights....well, think of pumping a 6-month old over your head for an hour while dancing to music.

OK, so, instructor walks in. All blonde. All leg. Greets Miffy, et. al. by name. Looks at me. Says nothing.

Music starts. Instructor goes to work, up and down and around the step. I am baffled. But I am also a trooper—and a former cheerleader, thank you very much—so I keep up. For 30 minutes.

I'm not sure which gave out: my exhausted body or my overloaded brain. All I know is that, on the next hop up and around the step, I fall off. Slipped on one of those infernal eight pound weights—which, by the way, are supposed to be stored under your step, not next to it, for this very reason, but what did I know? I land smack on my butt two or three feet away from my step. Instructor looks horrified but asks if I'm OK. I quickly pick myself up, flash a brilliant smile, and say "Sure!" (I did, after all, get a little rest while on the floor.)

I vow to do better. It's a useless oath. Five minutes later, my foot misses the platform and kicks the step underneath. At full arerobic speed.

All hell breaks loose.

Plastic parts go flying. One hits the instructor on her leg. Hard. And sends her crashing off of her step.

Miffy, Muffy, Kiki and Lala stop.

Music stops.

Class stops.

(I am already stopped because I'm once again on the floor.)

I think time also stopped because I don't have any recollection of how I got out of that room. One minute I was on the floor and the next I was in my car driving home.

You’d think that would have been the end of my step aerobics career. But being the frugal gal I am, I wanted to get my money’s worth out of the closetfull of thong thingies I now owned.
So a week later, I slinked into a different location of the same fancy schmancy Gym-To-The-Stars and slipped into the crowded 5:30 p.m. step aerobics class.

This time I hid in the back, where I once again fumbled and flailed. There must have been 50 people in that class, but when the instructor saw how god-awful bad I was, she marched to the back of the room, turned off her mike, hopped on my step and smiled at me.
"Let's do this together, shall we?"

She then proceeded to teach entire rest the class from my step. I was mortified. But there she was on my step, smiling this perky smile at me no less, so I couldn't very well leave.

Then a miracle from healthy Heaven happened: I stayed on that step. I didn’t fall, not even once. Inspired, I kept going back to that class and the sweet little instructor until I got so darn good I could enroll in the “with instructor’s approval” double step class.

I became an aerobics bunny — one who could kick Miffy et. al.’s collective patootie.

Of course, that was a long time ago, back when Jane Fonda—and I—were still doing aerobics.

Still, I learned a valuable lesson that has stayed with me all of these years and has nothing whatsoever to do with aerobics:

Believe in yourself. Don’t let anymore make you feel small. Never, ever, give up just because something is difficult. And always offer help to someone who’s struggling.

This has been my resolution for two decades. It’s about time I passed it on.

Happy New Year!

—Kim Pleticha

Editor & Publisher