Good afternoon, New York. Why must you be so grey and snowy outside? Never mind, I'm here at the office and warm and dry and holding it down this very holy week of Passover and Easter. And speaking of Passover, there's a limit to what we Jewish girls can/should endure, or more specifically, this particular Jewish girl.
Listen I know there's some MOT's out there that are long and soigne, you lucky ladies you. But I'm more of a peasant in body and soul which means I am neither long nor soigne. Cap that off with a complete lack of grace and you'll soon see why this whole pilates movement is lost on me. Even yoga, though it feels lovely and makes me feel happy to be able to touch my toes, does not really affect my physique the way it does for people built, say, like Kate Moss or even Kate Middleton. I'm just not that way and I need to jump and sweat and box and spin and oh, not eat anything ever again in order to see any results from anything. But I digress. Because in my feeble little bird brain I had a thought the other day that went something like, "Hmm. Pilates. Let me hit that".
So the other day I headed over to a yoga/pilates studio in Chelsea, close to where I work. Yoga studios always make me a little nervous- I am so much more of a Soul Cycle kind of girl- I like loud music, I like excitement, I like energy in my workouts. Walking into a yoga studio, while pleasant enough, is always dead quiet, way too warm for my tastes, and full of people afraid to talk too loud. Sure I love yoga, but I'm big on practicing at home or going to a more Jivamukti type thing that includes music, and lots of it. Anyhoo, this yoga studio in Chelsea, though immaculate and smelling nicely of lavender, was super warm and full of people doing neck rolls and cracking various parts of their lithe limbs.
I signed up for pilates, and though I have always been a big fan of the machine variety, this was a mat class. YIKES. Boy was I in the wrong place. In I walked to the studio, surrounded by people like the young gentleman in a half top and full length leggings and Mel from "Flight of the Conchords" (not really but dead ringer) in a tee shirt that read "EAT MORE KALE". Oy. I'm not saying not to eat more kale, just not sure how cool I am with wearing a shirt that says that. Anyhoo, in walks the teacher man, straight as an arrow, legs sinewy and muscular, and with those steely eyes that don't give anything away but take so very much out of you. Oof.
He proceeds to tell me to come up to the front for a little bit of "extra fun". Then he goes into what can only be described as an out and out sermon about how pilates, if done correctly, is much like "18th century German gymnastics". He then basically threatens to kill all of us if we don't breath solely through our noses and pay great attention to our power centers aka cores.
If that doesn't seem appealing enough, he demonstrated, on me, the best way to sit upright while performing this torture by putting a broom handle on my shoulders and making me loop my arms around it while twisting side to side. Humiliated and flushed, I couldn't believe the class had only started five minutes ago. Time was simply standing still. I can't recall a class where I have ever watched the clock more, and if I could have melted into the ether or exploded into a million pieces in order to leave that space at that very moment, I would have.
As the class got under way and the teacher kept shouting out Joseph Pilates or whatever the founder's name was, I couldn't help but think what a (not) fun guy this JP seemed like. How anyone who decided for anyone other than a Fosse dancer that keeping your legs up in the air while doing anything laying down for extended periods was a great idea (told ya I was Jewish). There were very few moves in this series of epic piking and twisting that felt anything less than tortured. At one point I simply retreated. Flat down. Because I could just not do anymore- there was no music, no air, nobody who was not at some point in their lives a part of a chorus line. What's a zaftig little peasant like myself to do? I am more suited to jamming out to 90s hip hop or Crystal Waters with a flamboyantly gay spin instructor who makes me feel good about Whitney Houston (RIP), Ryan Gosling, or best of all, myself.
This German disciplinarian teaching pilates had clearly never eaten a french fry. He had never laid on the couch all day watching a "Game of Thrones" marathon. And I guarantee you he had never slept through his alarm or read an US Weekly. Nope. This rigorous individual with the Patrick Bateman eyes and athlete's build (but long, long because of Joseph and pilates of course, just stick with it) and I had not one thing in common, except we were sharing the same air space (or lack thereof) for one hour. And when it came time to leave that class, not a moment too soon, he walked up to me and put his well muscled arm around me and patted, patted, patted and said in a German minimalist whisper "I know that was hard for you".
The shame. I walked out of there feeling much like one of those people that gets on the news for being too fat to get out of bed. I had no business taking a class in anything remotely resembling something so rigorous, disciplined, and Germanic. After all, I am a hedonist and am suspicious of doing anything that needs to be done the "right" way. Fuck that.
That's not to say I didn't exercise after that. Sure my abs (wherever they are) were sore after that class, but my Saturday spin class filled with songs by Big Pun, DMX, and Mary J. more than made up for that medieval plundering I endured one afternoon in Chelsea last week. And though pilates surely is beneficial, I would do it again if there were those reformer machines available, but I'm not hitting that mat again any time soon. Twyla Tharp, I ain't. So screw you Joseph whoever you are. I'd never invite you to a party at my house because all you'd do would correct my form and tell me to stand up straight and then maybe hit me with a stick. Not a fun dude. I mean, look at him.
I don't really know where this post just went but this being a Jewish holiday which celebrates our schlep through the desert, we're meant to recline as we eat our brisket and matzoh. I wonder what Joseph Pilates (and ps that's the silliest picture I found of him- the man was quite dashing and jacked) would say about that...That's him there in the leotard. You know that girl he's working with is most likely dying inside, yearning for a piece of gefilte fish and some good times. Whether she is a tribe member or not is irrelevant, cause I'm pretty sure Jewish girls and Joseph P. should never hang out .Cause that's what's up this passing over pilates kind of Monday in the 212. I just breathed through my mouth because I felt like it. Take that. XO
