Let's cut to the chase... I'm out of shape....woefully out of shape, a conveniently ignored and long suppressed fact that was painfully brought to the fore when I attended, at the long behest of my dear wife, my first Pilates exercise class last evening. Heretofore I had poo-pooed the notion that Pilates is truly a man's-man kind of exercise, believing it was best suited to women who abhor the notion of honest sweat. My idea of going to the gym, up until last evening, was to part company with Judi as she entered the room where the Pilates class is conducted and I in turn sought out a vacant exercise bike where I would sit myself down, set the controls to perpetual "warm up," and for 20 or 30 minutes would entertain myself with whatever book I was absorbed in at the moment. Judi would emerge from her class drenched in sweat and I looked like I'd been engaged in nothing more strenuous than a stroll through the aisles of the local super market in search of double-stuffed Oreo cookies.
As fate would have it, a fellow member of my church and his wife had attended their first Pilates class last week. In ear shot of my wife, the husband Jason, a member of St. Petersburg's "finest," challenged me to give the class a try. Being caught off guard without a glib excuse to turn down his pointed invitation, and not wishing to appear to wimp out in front of this manly-man police officer, I agreed. I figured, "What the heck. If this guy didn't have any negative remarks about the class...how bad can it be?" The dye was cast...
I was introduced to the lady who would serve as our class instructor for the evening. She had an hourglass figure and a flat stomach that you could fry eggs on. She cheerfully greeted me and proclaimed that "we were going to have fun this evening." It might have been fun for her, but it turned out to be pure hell for me. Without going into a great many details of the next hour of torture, let it suffice to say that other than the initial "warm up" stage, I was introduced to a totally new definition of the term "agony!" There wasn't a muscle in my pudgy body that wasn't stretched into positions that only a trained contortionist could endure. One particular "position" required one to place both hands under one's fanny and then thrust one's extended legs up and over one's head until the toes touched the floor behind one's head. I managed to get the hands under the fanny pretty much without too much difficulty, but the balance of the exercise was a lost cause. Judi flipped over like she was rolling out of bed. I, on the other hand, looked like a wounded duck. I think it was at this time that I determined the instructor to be a latter-day Nazi. The evening's contortions ended with everyone being required to stand on one foot, extend both arms and the opposite leg out from the body to "form a star." There is no star in any known constellation in the universe that comes anywhere close to my pour attempt at imitation. The only saving grace from the entire ordeal was to observe my friend Jason looking like a mirror image of yours truly. We are two pitiful specimens indeed.
But...we'll be back next week. At least I wasn't bored to tears. Well, I was crying, but it had nothing to do with my mental outlook. Even though today I am suffering agony with each poorly calculated move of my pain wracked body, I am determined to one day fling my legs over my head to touch the floor behind me. That seems like a worthy goal for a guy who now looks like the Pillsbury Doe Boy's first cousin. Every person needs a dream to sustain them in life. This is mine.
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