Twist & Shout
58Twist & Shout
My friend, Anne, has recently used her yoga-like finesse and zenability to cajole/bully me into joining her on a little hell-train I like to call “Pilates”.
Pilates. It even sounds nasty…like …tuberculosis or impetigo or Guantanamo or exercise.
Let me get to the end of the story first: Pilates is kicking my not-yet-defined a@#.
Our classes are held in the church basement, I assume for the very reason that when I scream: “Holy Mary Mother of God, HELP ME!” it’s very convenient to get my pleas to reach the spiritual ears of Someone Important more expediently. My sister, who’s adapted all things Southern since moving to Georgia, has a term for a moment of self-awareness that may cause emotional or physical pain. She calls it a “Come to Jesus” moment. Pilates, for me, is one enormous” Come to Jesus Moment”, all cocooned within the church basement; verrryyy well-suited for prayers-on-the-run, or the mat, as it were . Every time the instructor directs me to “Tuck in my abs and curl toward my tail bone”, I pray. Each time she chirps: “Time for 100’s”, I pray. Each time she demands: “Knit those ribs!” I scratch my head in confusion, frown, throw-up, then pray.
I’m a newbie. I’ve no earthly idea what I ‘m doing on the tile floor in this basement except that my belly has begun to rest on my thighs as I sit, toilet-prone, and I’ve discovered, tragically, I have the flexibility of a tree branch and the stamina of a cockroach stuck in molasses. Something had to be done and Anne, sick and tired of my whining, forced me into action. I did not realize this action actually required, you know…action.
Our instructor, a darling, dainty dynamo (alliteration intended) is hard to hate. She’s adorable, and elfin and as pleasant as I imagine Hansel & Gretel’s stepmother to have been prior to leading them into the forest. She is difficult to abhor, even while she is imploring me to “scoop those abdominals”, causing me to sob into my new yoga mat. Which smells like sweat and Preparation H. I don’t know why. Yes I do.
At the start of class, she cheerfully advises us to get into the “table position”. What in God’s name does she mean by that? Judging by the positions assumed by my Pilates-mates, it appears the table she is referring to is that of my gynecologist. Same table, same position, same humiliation. I yank my limbs into the table position…and I cannot move. I can’t. I then flip onto my belly like a catfish on a hook and I’m stuck; prone like Sunset Malibu Barbie on the roof of her Barbie Camper, where she enjoyed sunbathing in the 1970’s. As much as I grunt and strain and gasp, my arms can only reach so far down my thighs and my neck, while never considered swan-like, is now bulging with veins and throbbing like a church pew fell on my head.
Our teacher encourages breathing…in and out is the way to go, apparently. Yet each time she says exhale, I inhale… and vice versa. How can I ever hope to secure the body type of Cameron Diaz if I can’t get the breathing gig down accurately? During a technique called “The Roll Up”, I held my breath for so long that I….well let‘s just say that kielbasi and horseradish were an unfortunate dinner choice pre-Pilates. Especially for those poor saps located downwind from me. Lesson learned. I will only eat a lettuce leaf and a Dixie cup of water pre-Pilates. I respect these women too much to make them inhale my vapors during Downward Dog, or whatever the hell the animal is I’m emulating.
Well! I think it may be working. If it hurts to floss my teeth, it must be working, right? Also, it hurts to squat and chew. Not simultaneously. It hurts to file my nails. It hurts to talk, not that it stops me. My cheeks hurt, both facial and posterior. Even my hair follicles hurt. It hurts so much to heave my battered body up and out of my Serta Perfect Sleeper every day that I wonder if I can hire a team of Oompa Loompas to come over with a hand truck and WD-40 to get the job done.
I’ve had three children, three kidney stones and my gallbladder, appendix and boobs removed. Guess what? Pilates hurts more. But…on the bright side? My fancy pants buttoned this morning! And, I’m standing up straighter so I’ve almost reached the five foot mark! And after class, I don’t run home and eat a platter of Tater Tots anymore! I’d give a thumbs up here, but it hurts.
But, Holy Mary, Mother of God…. If you’re up there while I’m knitting my ribs on this smelly yoga mat in the church basement, please come down and give me a hand. Otherwise, this downward dog - or whatever the hell the animal is I’m emulating - may just have to bark, twist, shout, tinkle and simply…expire…all on a broken gynecologist’s table.
