All of us, at some point of time or the other, have been involved in a class of some kind. And in every class, however small, there are some students who are ‘teacher’s pets’.
In our school days, it was tough to figure out whether it was their dutiful manner or whether it was just an aura that had been created around their general proficiency that led to their special position in the teacher’s affections. Whatever it was, we resented their being held up as shining examples of what the rest of the class should be.
Everyone could see that the teacher’s pets, too, made mistakes. But they seemed to get away with only a mild reprimand for errors that would never have been overlooked in others. So, despite our resentment at their privileged status, some of us still aspired to be in their shoes — until the constant pressure of trying to please wore us out.
Then, we consoled ourselves that the up side of getting very little praise was that there was no negative attention either. For, at the other end of the spectrum were the pests in the class: The ones who never did their homework, always strolled in late — and a lot more. They were constantly being singled out for their misdemeanours — until finally teacher and students alike began to ignore their transgressions because they were so many and so frequent.
Imagine the teacher and the entire class sighing in frustration each time something went wrong, but not bothering to figure out why it had gone wrong. Instead, just mentally putting up their hands and giving up on those habitual offenders!
There was no way we wanted to be in their shoes.
So, when I became a student all over again in middle age and joined exercise classes to combat the middle-age spread, I was determined to be attentive. Here, too, there were the eager beavers on one side, the determined slackers on the other and everyone else in the middle. I didn’t aspire, as I had in my childhood, to worm myself into the teacher’s favour and get an extra dose of personalised instruction. It was enough for me to stay in that large in-between section and complete each day’s work-out without collapsing in a puddle of perspiration.
Then, both middle age and the middle-age spread advanced further — and back I went for more exercise classes.
But now, suddenly, I realise that time, stiffening joints and stiffened attitudes, have pushed me into a different category altogether. I can barely keep up with the rest of the group.
“Breathe into your rib cage”, says the Pilates instructor — and I let out the breath I’ve been holding (unnecessarily) with a loud ‘whoosh’. “Tuck your tummy in”, she calls next — and my tummy, which has a largely (pun intended) independent identity now, goes wherever it pleases but definitely not in.
The first few weeks of these sessions are a struggle — more for the instructor than for me. She is determined that I should learn, control, become the change she and I want to see. When it doesn’t happen, and all those missing muscles — lost somewhere in the layers of flab — fail to pull their weight, she slowly lets go.
She relaxes her vigil by my side and starts to turn a blind eye. She concentrates on the students who show progress and are serious about getting results. She gives me an occasional thumbs up if I’ve puffed my way successfully through the ‘hundreds’ but I’m mostly left alone to muddle through the rest as best I can.
I try to tell myself that at last I’m doing it right — but I have a sneaky feeling that in reality, I’ve now become incorrigible: The class pest I never wanted to be.
Cheryl Rao is a freelance journalist based in India.
