Fresh and Sweaty Redux

I belong to a gym in Stockholm called Friskis & Svettis, which hilariously translates to "Fresh and Sweaty." Due to the name's sleazy R Kelly overtones, my husband quickly changed this to "Booty Sweat." So far, I've used the gym mostly for the cardio machines and spinning classes and have warily watched the group training sessions from afar. This is because the majority of classes at Friskis involve that weird 1980s brand of low-intensity grapevining and kick-ball-changing typically performed by pear-shaped women who shouldn't be bouncing like that in spandex.

These classes, called "jympa," are taught in exactly the same creepy way by robotically chirpy instructors at Friskis branches all across town. It's a chain gym with a cultish following—Swedes LOVE them some turn-steps and over-the-tops. (See the above photo, swiped from the actual Friskis Web site.)

Well, a couple of nights ago I was taking a spinning class in a room that overlooked the main aerobics hall, and I noticed something different going on down there. The class was doing plyometrics and push ups and running sprints at the behest of a ridiculously fit female instructor. I thought, there you go, that's the way to exercise—I've got to try that out.

So, I looked up the name of the class (it's called "intensiv") and went to try it out this evening. This time, it was led by a short-shorts and sweatband-wearing Richard Simmons lookalike. It was held in a huge hall and there were at least 50 people in the class. We started off by doing stupid dance moves like the running man, interspersed with high-knee jogging and some sort of elaborate leg-crossing maneuver. The first song was even "Eye of the Tiger," I shit you not. I was panting and giggling and wishing my friend Heather—who has an appetite for silly choreography and whose dad has been known to refer to aerobics as "slimnastics"—was taking this class with me. I kept asking myself, "Is this ironic? I can't tell if this is ironic..." The class consisted of equal parts asymmetric haircuts and hightops and fit middle-aged Swedes, which threw my hipster radar way off.

But about 30 minutes into the class I stopped laughing, because I realized my ass was getting kicked all over the yim-nahz-ium. We went from "Come On Eileen" to techno-powered sprinting to some sort of funky Middle Eastern beats and a brutal series of mountain-climbers, dive bombers and military push-up variations (one-handed, one-legged push-ups? With a little hand-hop at the top? Ow).

I was glad it was genuinely intensive—exactly what I was hoping for, in fact, only I'm not in the best shape of my life. But I will be if I do a few of these classes each week! I've been slowly rehabilitating my upper body since I had shoulder surgery in August, but I realized tonight that it's time to start working harder. After all that over-the-head clapping and standing on my hands, my shoulder's range of motion is better than it has been in months. And I have to give the instructor props for his eclectic music selection—not to mention fashion sense.