Happy Birthday Pilates

It has been a year ( and a tiny bit ) since I started Pilates.

I was the big, whale of a girl, laying on the mat.

It appeared that I was quite devout and religious.

Cuz there was a LOT of praying going on:

“Dear God in Fucking Heaven – HELP ME”

“God, I will give you anything, anything if you will transport me out of this room.”

“Holy Jesus, let the hour be over RIGHT NOW!”

Well, and there was this . . .

“WHAT? WHAT do you mean there are FIFTY MORE MINUTES LEFT IN THE CLASS?”

And the gentle sobbing. And the not so gentle sobbing.

And the breathing that sounded just like sobbing.

But hey, I’m a Big Girl, with some seriously messed up joints, so Pilates seemed like the only thing standing between me and some sort of assisted walking device.

So I just showed up. I swore. I wept. I swore. I prayed. And I cried inside.

I also believed that no one had ever suffered or endured such pain during exercise. (I actually still believe this to be true.)

So it’s been a year.

And I can do a lot more stuff. (Like touch my feet. Hey, for me the goals were somewhat modest.)

Though I still think the hour is over when it has only been 20 minutes.

I still pray for a divine intervention at least twice during each class.

And I am pretty sure the teacher judges Fat Chicks.

Who could blame him? My teacher worked for Richard Simmons for 15 years. That must do something to a man.

And may I just say, my teacher doesn’t exactly bring that upbeat Richard-Simmons-sunshine to our Pilates class.

But I’m sure, in my mind, that I’m the teacher’s pet. And I know he loves me. Cuz he keeps showing up!

And you know what? After a year of Pilates? I’m still a Fat Chick. And no, I have not turned 50 pounds of fat to muscle.

But I am a Fat Chick who can touch my toes! Hah! Take that Jesus!