It had been almost two months, and I still had faith that I was going to get the hang of Pilates ... and then came the giant bouncy balls. Like Goldilocks, I went through three sizes of these inflatable spheres of humiliation, but never found that just-right ball. Instead, I spent most of class sunk into a partially deflated globe, knees to my chest and rolling off every five to seven minutes.
Pilates and I were an awkward match from the start, somewhere between the levels of the first dinner with your boyfriend's parents and asking a non-pregnant woman when she's due. I should have known better than to attempt an exercise class; from day one, I went into it with the wrong attitude (that attitude being that I was secretly hoping someone would fart at a horribly inopportune moment). I see now that my relationship with Pilates, while not destined to fail, will actually suffer a worse fate: to be strung out over 16 weeks as a series of incidents ranging from mildly uncomfortable to legitimately mortifying.
They say that 90 percent of success is just showing up (that has been said, I swear). In this case, showing up is actually 100 percent ... of my grade. But sometimes I fool myself into thinking that it could constitute some percentage of my success as well. I'm sore. Could that be from Pilates? What about that epic under-table dive I made during ‘ruit last weekend? My pants are a little loose, but couldn't it be because I am slowly losing what little sanity I have left and haven't had the peace of mind to feed myself anything but raw pasta and strawberry pop-tarts for the past week?
Pilates has a weird language of its own. Words and phrases I was sure I understood present a challenge. Suddenly a head nod was not the agreeable gesture I knew but an unfathomably complicated and elusive calisthenic movement. I know the word "pelvic," and I know the word "floor," but I'll be damned if I know what you're talking about when you use them together, and it only gets worse when you throw another wrench in there — try "elevator" or "zipper."
With each class, I am increasingly able to fake knowing what is going on; my instructor will say something like "articulate your spiiiiine," I sit up, and what do you know! This is apparently an acceptable response. I knew this was supposed to be a workout, giving me defined abs and a much needed posture makeover, but this was just not the case. Despite my misguided strategy of tensing a random muscle every time we are given a directive, I still can be found slouching around campus, hunched over my laptop, bearing the midriff of a four-year-old transitioning out of her baby-fat stage.
I even stayed after class and spoke with my instructor, hoping to get some insight on how I was supposed to breathe without moving my stomach (thanks a lot, yoga) or wave my arms in circles in a way that could be considered exercise. Unfortunately, the combination of my flailing limbs and apparent inability to understand anything coming out of my instructor's mouth was so painful for both of us that I just faked enlightenment and left the gym with my tail "articulated" between my legs.
I have, after all the flying foam rings and accidental classmate slapping, come to a conclusion. Pilates and I are just not meant to be. Apparently, neither are me and a six-pack. Knowing your own limitations is important, and just like "The Big Lebowski" and Twitter, I know that I will never understand the intricate dance that is PE 0008-A. The semester, however, is not even half over, so for 75 minutes twice a week until December, I will be faking and flailing my way to fitness. And now that the pressure's off to make it work, I will be loving every minute of it.
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Jessie Borkan is a senior majoring in psychology. She can be reached at Jessie.Borkan@tufts.edu.
