Cart-Wheeled

It started out innocently enough.
Twenty of us spread in haphazard rows across the gym with our trusty little yoga mats beside us.
The lights were bright. The music lively—almost drowning out the grunts and gasps of the aforementioned twenty.
My youngest daughter and I had taken up a position on one side of the gym where we had a clear view of our faithful leader . . . erm . . . leading.
With a big smile permanently spread across her face, she was enthusiastically and effortlessly taking us through all kinds of exercises.
Working our non-existent abs and biceps in the plank and pushups. Testing creaking knees in lunges and squats.
Introducing things like the ‘inchworm’ and the ‘mountaineer’.
Yikes.
But, teeth gritted in determination, we were having fun.
We had been at it for about 20 minutes.
And many of us (okay, me) were starting to see a real sweat glow.
Then, that fateful command. “Okay everyone! I want you to try a cartwheel!”
A cartwheel? Had we heard correctly?
My daughter and I looked at each other.
She shrugged. “Well, here goes,” she said.
Now I have to tell you that, in a bygone day, I was actually able to do a cartwheel. A credible one.
I even taught others how to do them.
Did I still have it in me?
Only one way to find out.
I leaned over, my hands reaching for the floor . . .
And did a perfect round-off.
I kid you not. I did. A perfect one!
Now a round-off differs from a cartwheel in that once one’s hands are on the floor, the legs come up and rather than continue over in a spread-eagled, look-at-me-I’m-a-starfish sort of fashion, are clapped together and the body turned so the feet touch the ground together in a 180 degree turn from where they left off.
Got it?
Well I did it.
A perfect one.
And yes, I was as surprised as everyone else there.
Now did I gloat over my triumph and calmly move on to the next exercise?
I did not.
Oh, I gloated all right. I gloated myself right into another cartwheel.
I mean, if I could do it once, I could do it again, right?
Wrong.
This time, I tried a regular cartwheel. The spread eagle one.
Where one’s limbs are expected to be . . . spread-eagled.
Only mine don’t do that anymore.
There was a distinct ‘pop’.
And instant pain.
Now you have to know that our instructor is the sweetest, gentlest girl ever born. No way I was going to let her know I had injured myself. She would probably bathe me with her tears.
So to speak.
Instead, I gasped and somehow maintained a smile through the rest of the exercises.
Then limped home.
And kept on limping.
For two months.
I’m telling you all this in case any of you ever want to include me in your exercise regimen. Please know this:
I've discovered I’m a one-cartwheel woman. And that cartwheel has passed.
Ouch.