Friday, September 23, 2005

Ooops, that was me.

I am taking a pilates class, up to the Joonyer College, as they say. And by "they" I mean, "me." Except for compulsory P.E. classes in grade school, I have never participated in anything of this nature, so everything is quaintly new to me. "Our instructor brings a portable CD player and we listen to music the WHOLE TIME!!" That sort of thing. I like the class, and I would probably like it more if I spent more time focusing on making my navel and spine meet and less time thinking about the social dynamic of the room. There are about 12 people in the class, and many of them have taken previous classes with this instructor. There are the requisite Blonde Girls who chat before class while stretching and have long conversations of the variety that I always thought occurred only in yogurt and tampon commercials. There are some 40-something, supertanned, milfs - or more accurately, mYlfs, because I'll take a pass on that action, thank you very much. There's an older lady who farts pretty regularly during some of the moves, and says sweetly in her tiny voice, "Ooops, that was me." I don't sit right next to her. There's another older lady who cannot weigh more than 70 pounds. There are two very well- groomed investment firm gals who talk a lot about work before and after the actual class, and there's another woman who does temp work at the same firm, so she gets in on the conversation sometimes. The Temp Worker, who is probably in her 50s, sat next to me one week and told me she is a retired hairstylist. She also told me that she is "cheating" on her diet all over the place, especially when temping at the investment firm because everyone brings in cookies and cakes and ... whatever. I don't have a lot of patience with that kind of conversation. I have more patience with cupcake anxiety, however, than I do with casual conversation in a pilates class about the offpsring of Abraham and Sarah. Apparently, Temp Worker has been reading her Bible, and found the need to share her revelations (get it?) with a very sweet and quiet college professor who wears a bindi, and is obviously too polite to tell this woman who shut the hell up because pilates class ain't no missionary trip. Given the choice, I would sit next to the Farting Lady. When I mentioned my pilates class a couple days ago to my friend Lolita, who had stopped by to allow me to bask in the glory of her baby daughter's beauty, she said, "You're taking a pilates class? Huh." Last night, over takeout Chinese food at their house, Lolita told us that she had gone home to her husband and said, "Elizabeth's taking a pilates class. We used to smoke and drink together." We also used to work together, have lunch together almost every day, spend whole weekends together and generally behave in a way that had our other colleagues believing that our children would one day appear on a prime-time news magazine program complaining about our sick lifestyle. I miss those times.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

LOL! How did you choose pilates for your first exercise class? Dance background? Talk about trial by fire!

11:18 AM  
Blogger Contemplative Chaplain said...

What a silly story. Wonderful, wonderful writing.

I have just recently found your blog and been so impressed and moved. I found myself reading of your entry of your mother's death and daughter's arrival and crying and crying.

As a hospice chaplain, I should be hardened...(or not).

Thank you for your words.

Christen in Indiana

4:41 PM  
Anonymous peripateticpolarbear said...

I have a question---where do they make those blonde girls? They're everywhere. I think they're in every group I've ever been part of and they travel in packs. They always have cute handbags and pedicures, too.

4:13 PM  

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