Pilates Defined

After weeks and weeks of prodding, I ran out of excuses and joined my friends at Pilates last night. In case you're wondering, the word "pilates" is Latin for "suffer-fest." I'm fairly certain it was a type of Roman torture only used on people they really had it in for.

I've seen how stiff Tina, Calli, and Joy are for a day or two after this class and have avoided it quite well-- until last night. I think they all enjoyed the reversal of roles-- I was the clueless Padawan and they were all the Jedi Masters.

I walked into the torture chamber and watched as people staked a claim on a spot with a mat and a medicine ball. My friends, who all have mats of their own, of course, handed me one of the germ infested loaners. After some quick thinking, I staked my claim on the only spot in the room where I couldn't see myself in a mirror. (Good thinking me, right?)

It begins. The perky, skinny little sadist put on a microphone and began asking us to contort our bodies into painful, unnatural positions, all the while blabbering about nothing in the attempt to distract us from the fact that she said "Four More!" about twenty repetitions ago. Pure trickery. Pure evil.

The whole time, I'm doing my best to make it look easy. I can't see myself in the mirror, but I'm sure no one is noticing my beet red face and the dripping sweat pouring down my neck, right? What I'm really hoping is that no one notices me at all, because the real reason I avoid this kind of thing is that I am God's gift to the graceful people-- you know that gift that makes them all point and laugh and feel superior? Yeah. That's me.

Pilates Patty or whatever her name is finally declared free time and showed us a few things to work on. When she did a move called the "elephant" where she twisted her legs about five times, lifted them over her head, then raised herself up on one hand (not really), I had to laugh. Obviously she is the devil who is inhabiting the body of Cheerleader Gumbi. I do have to admit, though, that the stretches at the end were fabulous.

So, nearly 24 hours later, my body is starting to protest its mistreatment. Seriously, I can ride a bike for 60 miles and not feel a thing the next day, but a 55 minute class taught by someone I could throw across the room with one hand leaves me feeling like I got stuck under a steamroller? Like I said, Latin for suffer fest.

So, in the spirit of misery loves company, my question is who's joining me next week?