Never Take Pilates Lessons from a Fatty

I am standing on a dusty road, wearing my light blue cropped sweatpants with the word "Pink" emblazoned across the ass. As the hot, dry wind whips across my face, I shift my sports bra back into place, and adjust the do-rag on my head. As the sun shines in my eyes, making me squint, I wrinkle my nose at the uncertainty ahead. It finally sinks in that I have reached a Pilates crossroads, my darlings.

The road to the left leads me to an Adonis-like French man teaching the class and lending his expertise to tone my powerhouse. The road to the right involves a dour, pot-bellied man of indeterminable cultural origins barking orders at me, making me wince and hate my life. Seems like no contest? I wish.

I was introduced to Adonis and his amazing Pilates studio recently, and it has greatly improved the quality of my life. Not only is he easy on the eyes, standing at about 6'4" with zero body fat, but he runs the class in a way that is inspiring and challenging all at the same time. He makes funny jokes, does this precious little whistle when he wants you to pick up the pace, and plays phenomenal music. He even manages to call you "sexy lady" at moments you couldn't feel less sexy. But it makes you smile through your straining muscles.

Somehow, performing Pilates at that studio makes me feel like a better version of me. The only problem: it costs a LOT to be a better me.

So, I reluctantly decided to check out the half-as-expensive Pilates class at my gym. With only one or two classes per day, I am not wild about the idea. But, out of duty to my checkbook, I signed up.

This morning I went in and checked out the machines as the first class was working. They pale in comparison to Adonis' machines, but they are better than the ones on QVC. Check.

The people I saw through the glass door were supposed to be doing an advanced class. However, they seemed to be spending a lot of time doing beginners work that holds little satisfaction for the more acrobatic, cardio-hungry user like myself. My enthusiasm began to wane.

Then I saw the instructor. He stood with unimpressive posture that only seemed to improve when he was criticizing someone's form. His eyes were dull and half-closed, and his lips were like two slimy earthworms perched atop his chin. Then my eyes moved south to see his pot belly. Pot belly! No one who actually does exercise that centers on using abdominal muscles for EVERYTHING should have a POT BELLY!

"This is an outrage!" I thought to myself as I gripped the now-forgotten USA Today in my right fist. "That's like taking advice on raising children from a childless, crazy cat lady!" My eyes narrowed, my heart rate quickened. I began to long for the diffused light that filters through the beautiful West Hollywood glass of Adonis' studio and perfectly lights the sweat on my torso.

As the "advanced" class ended, I walked in and took off my green clogs. I sat, with a smile fixed on my face, and watched as Earthworm Lips didn't lead them through stretches. His beady eyes scanned the room, perhaps for loose change or linty candies from someone's pocket, and they fell on me. He sauntered over, as gracefully as any fatty could, and proceeded to tell me that I couldn't take the class.

"You need to sign up for a Level One class, since we all do the same exercises and you'll slow us all down since you don't know them." I looked at him and told him that the desk told me it was okay to sign up for Pilates 2 if I was familiar with the machines. He grinned. "No. I need to evaluate you first. Tomorrow or Thursday, 8 AM."

Impotent and repulsed, I stood up and grabbed my shoes. How dare this Poor Man's Jabba The Hut turn ME away! I wanted to challenge him to a Pilates Battle, so we could see who should be judging who.

*editor's note: Realistically, this makes perfect sense. But the crankiness of not being able to afford Adonis' great classes combined with the slovenly appearance and uncaring demeanor of Earthworm Lips makes it an outrageous affront.*

I will see this character tomorrow morning, and I will wow him with my skills. All I know is that Jabba better make me sweat, or I will unleash upon him the fury that comes from a lamely-exercised abdominal area and hurt feelings.

grr. g