Women's Body Ritual Men Cannot Master

Aerobics convert Dirk Strasser admits that lycra-clad women are superior.
It has to be up there in the male fantasy stakes: to be gyrating and thrusting in a room with twenty women, to match your rhythm with theirs, to hear them gasping for air around you, and to end up on the floor, utterly exhausted and bathed in sweat. I do it three times a week. It's called aerobics. Believe me, it's no fantasy.
I don't really like fads. I either get on a bandwagon before everyone else does or after most people have jumped off. I'm a bit elitist that way: if so many people suddenly want to do the same thing at the same time, I can't accept that they have come to that conclusion by some process of universal spontaneity. They must have been manipulated by external forces. (I call this Strasser's Third Law - there isn't a first or second, but it always sounds impressive when you add the adjective third to a word).
I've convinced myself that aerobics isn't a fad, although it does come with the same Californian pedigree as Channellers, Bimbos and LA Law. I believe it has passed the test of longevity. It may not yet rival Christianity in the endurance stakes, but give it time.
Aerobics is, of course, a religion. You've got it all rolled up into the one spiritual package. As in Catholicism, guilt is the motivating force. Just try skipping one of your regular sessions, and you quickly find out about it. The influence of Islam is also evident: you invariably end up on your knees facing the holy Mecca of the instructor's platform. Aerobics provides you with the rhythmic prostrations of the Buddhist ascetic, the endorphin-induced high of the Charismatics and the exalted nirvana of the Tibetan mystic. It's all there. It's easy to hear the Celestial Choir when the four foot speakers pound it into your ears, and it's easy to see the Light when it is constantly flashing in your face.
But aerobics is different to the others. It is the ultimate feminist religion. It destroys our male egos and makes a mockery of our male fantasies. The few of us who have gained entry into this bizarre cult have discovered the extent of our own adequacies. We males are acutely aware that we are out of place. There's always that slightly embarrassed nod of acknowledgment as we spot each other across the sea of fluorescent lycra. And we always make it a point to be conspicuous in the gym later, just to prove that we lift weights as well.
The High Priestesses are the leading exponents of this religion. They instruct their followers in the myriad manifestations of its forms and try to lead us all to the state of perfection. There is never any doubt that these High Priestesses are in control. Although there is no decree hindering the ordination of Priests, they are few and far between. God has many faces, but at least we can be fairly certain that she is wearing a designer leotard.
As with most religions, you get introduced almost casually by converts. You are welcomed with the ritualistic "Anyone not done aerobics before?", the comforting "Just work at your own pace", the reassuring "If it hurts, come and see me afterwards", and the mildly condescending "Try to get the legs right first, and don't worry about the arms."
During your early attempts to grapple with this new belief system, you make strange discoveries. You discover that there are people in the world who can move their arms and legs in disparate rhythms and that there are people who can perform the most intricate of movements with the gracefulness of a gazelle. You discover that you are not one of these people. You find out that lying on the floor for leg work is not such an attractive proposition as it first seems. You find out that the correct term for buttocks is bun, and that it is usually used in conjunction with the adjective burning. And you discover that tummy time is not nearly as cute and easy as it sounds.
It is no accident that most of aerobic's devotees are female. While our obvious male inadequacies are never highlighted, we are either ignored by the High Priestesses or at best treated with suppressed amusement. We should be pitied. There is a strange quirk in our DNA which makes it genetically impossible to get the movements right. Only through aerobics can we gain some of the feminist feeling of being involved in a game where the rules disadvantage us from the very outset. We know the motions of the male hip simply cannot mimic the female patterns. We know our hamstrings will never stretch far enough for our foreheads to come into contact with our knees. We know that all these things are impossible for the human male. Yet, for some reason, there are those of us who choose to wage a war of attrition with our Y chromosome.
Like any religion, aerobics has its splinter groups and fringe elements. In the beginning there was the one God Aerobics, and the peoples of the world flocked to it in droves. But its devotees were not satisfied, and the Church split into the great schism of Beginners, Intermediates and Advanced. Membership of each of the groups was fluid at first. Beginners knew Intermediates, and Intermediates lay down with Advanced. This satisfied the people for a time. But the differences soon hardened. The Intermediates laughed contemptuously at the Beginners, and the Advanced viewed them both with hearty disdain. A patriarchal hierarchy had imposed itself on the egalitarian feminist sisterhood. The High Priestesses soon realised that this pernicious male influence had to be overcome.
The answer was to blur the distinctions. Suddenly the divisions were unclear, and the devotee was faced with strange new hybrids. Tummy, Hips and Thighs - have the areas of sinful evidence ever been targeted so accurately? New Body - has nirvana ever been articulated so succinctly? The list is almost endless: Low Impact, Heavy Hands, Bun Burners, Moves, Fit & Firm, Hi/Low, and the queen of them all Cardio Funk.
The conspiracy is obvious, of course. The purpose was to eliminate the one element of aerobics where the male is capable of outshining the female - running. Though it may be clothed under various guises, the new aerobics seeks to destroy the final remaining male advantage. Tangle them up in intricate dance steps. Make them look and feel foolish. Destroy their little fantasy. Let them be aware every step of the way of their inferiority. They resent us there, you know, and they're doing their best to drive us out.
But it won't work. We can't let it work. We can't let them have this religion all to themselves. We can't let them take away the last vestiges of our pathetic male fantasy. We're going to hang in there and stretch those hamstrings until they snap. We're going to learn those bloody dance steps. We're going to force our arms and legs to follow those genetically unnatural rhythms. In the end, I guess we're just too competitive to be beaten by it all.
And after we get up from our cool down, with our heart rates back to normal and the final notes still wafting gently in our ears, we're going to give ourselves a big clap and tell ourselves how much we enjoyed the class.
The Canberra Times 15 January 1991
It has to be up there in the male fantasy stakes: to be gyrating and thrusting in a room with twenty women, to match your rhythm with theirs, to hear them gasping for air around you, and to end up on the floor, utterly exhausted and bathed in sweat. I do it three times a week. It's called aerobics. Believe me, it's no fantasy.
I don't really like fads. I either get on a bandwagon before everyone else does or after most people have jumped off. I'm a bit elitist that way: if so many people suddenly want to do the same thing at the same time, I can't accept that they have come to that conclusion by some process of universal spontaneity. They must have been manipulated by external forces. (I call this Strasser's Third Law - there isn't a first or second, but it always sounds impressive when you add the adjective third to a word).
I've convinced myself that aerobics isn't a fad, although it does come with the same Californian pedigree as Channellers, Bimbos and LA Law. I believe it has passed the test of longevity. It may not yet rival Christianity in the endurance stakes, but give it time.
Aerobics is, of course, a religion. You've got it all rolled up into the one spiritual package. As in Catholicism, guilt is the motivating force. Just try skipping one of your regular sessions, and you quickly find out about it. The influence of Islam is also evident: you invariably end up on your knees facing the holy Mecca of the instructor's platform. Aerobics provides you with the rhythmic prostrations of the Buddhist ascetic, the endorphin-induced high of the Charismatics and the exalted nirvana of the Tibetan mystic. It's all there. It's easy to hear the Celestial Choir when the four foot speakers pound it into your ears, and it's easy to see the Light when it is constantly flashing in your face.
But aerobics is different to the others. It is the ultimate feminist religion. It destroys our male egos and makes a mockery of our male fantasies. The few of us who have gained entry into this bizarre cult have discovered the extent of our own adequacies. We males are acutely aware that we are out of place. There's always that slightly embarrassed nod of acknowledgment as we spot each other across the sea of fluorescent lycra. And we always make it a point to be conspicuous in the gym later, just to prove that we lift weights as well.
The High Priestesses are the leading exponents of this religion. They instruct their followers in the myriad manifestations of its forms and try to lead us all to the state of perfection. There is never any doubt that these High Priestesses are in control. Although there is no decree hindering the ordination of Priests, they are few and far between. God has many faces, but at least we can be fairly certain that she is wearing a designer leotard.
As with most religions, you get introduced almost casually by converts. You are welcomed with the ritualistic "Anyone not done aerobics before?", the comforting "Just work at your own pace", the reassuring "If it hurts, come and see me afterwards", and the mildly condescending "Try to get the legs right first, and don't worry about the arms."
During your early attempts to grapple with this new belief system, you make strange discoveries. You discover that there are people in the world who can move their arms and legs in disparate rhythms and that there are people who can perform the most intricate of movements with the gracefulness of a gazelle. You discover that you are not one of these people. You find out that lying on the floor for leg work is not such an attractive proposition as it first seems. You find out that the correct term for buttocks is bun, and that it is usually used in conjunction with the adjective burning. And you discover that tummy time is not nearly as cute and easy as it sounds.
It is no accident that most of aerobic's devotees are female. While our obvious male inadequacies are never highlighted, we are either ignored by the High Priestesses or at best treated with suppressed amusement. We should be pitied. There is a strange quirk in our DNA which makes it genetically impossible to get the movements right. Only through aerobics can we gain some of the feminist feeling of being involved in a game where the rules disadvantage us from the very outset. We know the motions of the male hip simply cannot mimic the female patterns. We know our hamstrings will never stretch far enough for our foreheads to come into contact with our knees. We know that all these things are impossible for the human male. Yet, for some reason, there are those of us who choose to wage a war of attrition with our Y chromosome.
Like any religion, aerobics has its splinter groups and fringe elements. In the beginning there was the one God Aerobics, and the peoples of the world flocked to it in droves. But its devotees were not satisfied, and the Church split into the great schism of Beginners, Intermediates and Advanced. Membership of each of the groups was fluid at first. Beginners knew Intermediates, and Intermediates lay down with Advanced. This satisfied the people for a time. But the differences soon hardened. The Intermediates laughed contemptuously at the Beginners, and the Advanced viewed them both with hearty disdain. A patriarchal hierarchy had imposed itself on the egalitarian feminist sisterhood. The High Priestesses soon realised that this pernicious male influence had to be overcome.
The answer was to blur the distinctions. Suddenly the divisions were unclear, and the devotee was faced with strange new hybrids. Tummy, Hips and Thighs - have the areas of sinful evidence ever been targeted so accurately? New Body - has nirvana ever been articulated so succinctly? The list is almost endless: Low Impact, Heavy Hands, Bun Burners, Moves, Fit & Firm, Hi/Low, and the queen of them all Cardio Funk.
The conspiracy is obvious, of course. The purpose was to eliminate the one element of aerobics where the male is capable of outshining the female - running. Though it may be clothed under various guises, the new aerobics seeks to destroy the final remaining male advantage. Tangle them up in intricate dance steps. Make them look and feel foolish. Destroy their little fantasy. Let them be aware every step of the way of their inferiority. They resent us there, you know, and they're doing their best to drive us out.
But it won't work. We can't let it work. We can't let them have this religion all to themselves. We can't let them take away the last vestiges of our pathetic male fantasy. We're going to hang in there and stretch those hamstrings until they snap. We're going to learn those bloody dance steps. We're going to force our arms and legs to follow those genetically unnatural rhythms. In the end, I guess we're just too competitive to be beaten by it all.
And after we get up from our cool down, with our heart rates back to normal and the final notes still wafting gently in our ears, we're going to give ourselves a big clap and tell ourselves how much we enjoyed the class.
The Canberra Times 15 January 1991