Does Your Body Cry Out for Energy? Well, Scream

“Are you one of those people who scream?” she asks me.

We are not talking nightmares, or roller-coasters, or the sight of open-heart surgery.

We are talking aerobics. Which is close.

“Uh,” I say. “No. I mean, not usually.”

She is the aerobics instructor and I, the instructee. We are alone, on an otherwise empty basketball court, because nobody in their right mind could be expected to show up at this hour.

For this.

“Well, you really should try screaming,” she says. “It gives you energy.”

I will take her at her word. She is a bolt of royal blue in a specially formulated aerobic tank top.

She looks beyond energized.

She looks electrocuted.

But, then again, it may be the tank top. It appears to be made of sequins, which, of course, is ridiculous because sequins would fly all over the place, once you got to aerobicizing. Not to mention screaming.

So there is liability to think about. From what I hear, the last poor slob to get caught in a sequin meteor shower got one embedded in his gums. Which is what you get for trying to smile during aerobics.

I, meantime, am dressed in black, matte black, because there is no sense in calling attention to myself.

I do not wear sequins before breakfast.

This morning, for example, the only sparkle is in my eye. Or maybe that’s just sleep. As I said, it’s early.

My hair, naturally, is uncombed, with a rather interesting flattened look on one side. Which I thought would be OK.

I thought that since aerobics is something that leaves you hot, tired, panting, slack-jawed and coated with sweat when done correctly (dismemberment and possible death, of course, being the consequences of really screwing up), that nobody would notice.

But I was wrong.

I sense disappointment in the aerobic instructor’s eyes, which are fringed in thick, unnaturally dark lashes, definitely the kind in the “after” pictures, where the model not only looks made up, but 10 pounds thinner and caught in a wind tunnel.

I, however, am the generic “before” model. Except the aerobics instructor is thinking that I am not much to work with.

“Well, I guess we should start,” she says, somewhat dispiritedly. Then she turns up the volume on the stereo.

Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, let’s party . . . (Heavy bass thumping) Get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, let’s party . . . (Unspecified hooting) .

“Huh?” I say.

I am still thinking about my hair.

“Deep breath in,” she shouts. “Bend your knees. Bring it up. And out. Deep breath in. . . . “

Then I realize that this woman is looking straight at me with those penetrating aerobics eyes. Initially, I am a tad alarmed, but then I realize that (of course!) there is no one else to look at.

I am not used to this. Maybe you kind of figured this out, but I am not the type to position myself front and center in aerobics class.

Usually, I’m the one hidden in the third row, extreme right hand corner, where if I fail to immediately master the latest step that the aerobics instructor has picked up from a stint with the June Taylor Dancers, I can safely fake it with the Frug.

Or if I’m feeling especially lighthearted, the Freddy.

But now, I will have to do my best. Even if my ankles begin to wobble, my knees to creak, my face to redden, my heart to race, faster and faster, like some crazed gazelle’s, until it reaches the aerobic zone , at which point my tongue will flop out of the side of my mouth at the exact moment that my head makes contact with the floor.

Which is where the paramedics will find me.

Or maybe I’m overreacting.

I mean, I do so want to give this my all. Because the very last person that you want to think poorly of you is your aerobics instructor.

Everybody knows that once you’ve seen somebody in an aerobics class, you can never quite look at them the same way again.

You could be all dressed up, every hair in place, with polish on your fingernails and your toenails, and your aerobomates will still fixate on that weird way that your leotard hikes up in the back.

(Which is also why wearing swimsuits in an office setting is frowned upon).

“OK, now take it in, and out, and in, and, 8, and 7, and 6 . . . “ I hear a voice shouting over more heavy bass thumping followed by fast-paced groaning.

But then I sense that the thuds on the floor of the basketball court are becoming heavier. I turn, and Yes! Thank God!

Somebody else has shown up. And she looks like me!

In a superficial way, I mean.

That is, she is not wearing sequins.

But she does have weights strapped to her wrists.

Which, from what I hear, gives you energy.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.