the anguish of the tormented

Waving my foot at the TV people.

Well, I did it. A whole 25 minutes of pilates. And seriously, I'd rather spray myself with mace then go through that again. I equated it to my high school gym class many moons ago, where we'd all lay on the floor while the mean, tubby gym teacher with his too-small running shorts and hideous mustard-yellow t-shirt would bark out commands. I won't mention which DVD I did, because it got good reviews, and I'm sure it's a lovely program. People absolutely rave about pilates, and that's wonderful. I just never intend to do it again.

I was too lazy to find my workout clothes (which tells you how long it's been since I've actually worn them) so I did the routine in my pajamas. As I was laying down on the floor to begin, I remembered taking a pilates class years ago with Laura at Equinox, our gym in Manhattan. And me walking out afterward and saying to her, "man, I think pilates is just not for me." Why I didn't remember this before I ordered the DVD is beyond me.

It started off with breathing. Then more breathing. Some stretchy stuff. A rocking/clutching/heaving thing. More slow, controlled motions. And it just went on and on. Sadie came over and sat on my chest as I was doing whirly circles with my leg. Ever try and work out with a 4 pound dog on your chest? Perhaps I can invent some sort of workout that involves poms. Or toy breeds in general. I'll call it "Pomercise" and it'll sweep the nation. I'll be making millions, touring the country with my dogs, and showing off my slim, new, dog-hair covered figure.

Anyway, I was bored, I wanted it to be over, and I didn't enjoy it. However, Netflix lists hundreds of fitness DVDs, so there has to be something else out there for me while I wait for my foot to heal. I remember loving yoga, so I think that's my next attempt. Oh, treadmill, how I miss you. How I took you for granted . . .

Here I am, filled with the despair that is pilates: