I tell my mom I bought a fitness center class card and have officially begun the quest for the pilates body.
“How much was that?” she asks. “You could have watched the video I gave you.”
“The one with the stoner?” I scoff. “A sloth wouldn’t feel the burn watching that video.”
She wants details, so I explain that the video instructor’s slurred words and dilated pupils suggest she’s high on more than life. Between poses, she actually goes to a pantry offset and digs into a bag of Fritos.
I think my mom is surprised that I spent money on an endeavor in which I will likely humiliate myself. (Theatre camp during puberty doesn’t count, because it was my parents’ money). Shocking as it may seem, I have always been the last picked for gym class. The only reason my butt isn’t as wide as a Hummer is that I’m blessed with high metabolism and the tendency to subsist on only yogurt and watermelon for days at a time.
The first pilates class isn’t what I expect. I feel okay about myself when I pull on the black tights before class. I don’t look as out of shape as I am. On the walk to class, my mind begins to conjure up potential discomforts, like a studio full of tan, naturally airbrushed supermodels and one pale, freckled, normal me. As I wait on a bench outside the studio, I watch my classmates file in. Some are lithe and toned, some are not. I’m more on the toned end of the spectrum, so that’s great. Then we walk into class, and I observe the others. They pick the mats and resistance bands and claim spots on the floor. I lie down behind someone who looks like she’ll know what to do, but still looks more out of shape than me. This is a perfect combination, as far as I’m concerned.
I crunch and roll around an imaginary beach ball vertebra by vertebra, rocking side to side after strain. Julia, the instructor, asks us to visualize a corset being tightened. The humiliating moment arrives - “I’m going to lose grip on this resistance band!” I think. “It’s going to snap away from my outstretched leg and attack a small child somewhere!” But it doesn’t.
A girl nearly pokes one of my eyes out with her pointed toe, but I slide my mat and taut abs over. I move my muscles, but not my hips. Those hips, I’m told, have a stake through them and cannot be lifted. I’m also instructed to scoop my stomach, prompting me to think about the wet metal tool serving sundaes at Ben & Jerry’s. Pilates is all about imagining I’m doing something other than what I’m actually doing - lying on the floor and trying not to be relaxed.
After the class, I feel fine and kind of disappointed. Honestly, part of me wanted to have to take a cab home. I can still walk and laugh without wincing. How much could I have worked out, if everything feels normal? I do feel more energized, though. I stay up an extra hour reading, but regret it the next morning. This is a typical battle.
It hits hours later. I’ve been sitting and working for a few hours and get up to go to the printer to retrieve something. My legs have become wobbling boulders. My abs feel like they’re highlighted down to every last ribbon of muscle. All the parts that left the mat in counted intervals and rotations are feeling heavy and tight. I love the feeling that someone has kicked my ass, and I just took it lying down.
I worked in nyc some years ago…is a beautiful city…. the top of the world!!!!!!!
http://www.francesca-lu.ilcannocchiale.it