a relative of mine (a short, slim, not particularly muscular woman) introduced me to pilates and i figured, looking at her, how hard could it be. she told me how easy and fun it was. she spent the ENTIRE WAY THERE there telling me how much i’m going to like it. afterwards we can get a coffee, she says. all you’re doing is stretching, right? — WRONG. we buzz into the class and i stick all my stuff in a corner. i’m very comfortable in my little 5’ inseam bedazzled work out shorts expecting to chat my way through some machine assisted yoga. loud and incorrect. i’m full body trembling within 3 minutes. several people surrounding me are giving me sympathetic “you too?” looks, and i begin to wonder what is wrong with all of them. i begin to question myself. i find faith. i lose it again. i look up at the clock six hours later and it has been 12 minutes. it’s been a full day since we finished the first class and i’m still in pain. i am never going back to that place.
