I recently signed up for a Pilates class at the E-ville health club, which means that every Tuesday and Thursday I get to make a crockpot dinner and rush home after work to change into gym clothes - not simultaneously, however. (If it were, eating crockpot stew would easily win out over exercise). Hilariously, the class consists of me, a kinky-haired, fragile-boned, new-agey instructor in her 50s, and five or six interchangeable middle-aged mom types. They show up in flannel pajama pants with drawstrings at the waist. Which is awesome.
See the cute little cartoon girl in her perfect Pilates position? That's not what I look like in class. Sure, I can hold my own, thanks to my limited experience with the "Pilates for Weight Loss DVD (alas, I found the title to be fairly misleading). I look like an approximation of Cartoon Girl, with knees shaking and bent, posture slightly slouched and my neck straining to hold my head up during the ab work. But the lights are soothingly dim and there are chanting CDs and cute foam-rubber mats for everyone - it all makes me feel very Hollywood. Now E-ville just needs a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, so I can stride fashionably out of the gym in my chic workout gear, toting my yoga mat, hop into my Mercedes and go buy a skinny latte. Or not.
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