I’m proud to report that I prepared for, showed up, and stayed awake for seven out of the eight classes. When I was rear-ended on my way to the third class, I cursed the Pilates gods who seemed to have a vendetta against me. Never mind the $1,000 of damage to my precious 2005 Honda Accord, the bigger tragedy was that I missed class while I waited for the police.
Each week, I mustered up the energy to drive home from work, pick up Mack from daycare, eat enough but not so much that I would throw up, rush to class, do Pilates exercises for an hour, and go to sleep way past my old lady bedtime. One day, I had a minor breakdown revolving around the financial and personal stress of my house. Another day, my dog was unjustly kicked out of doggie daycare. (Read as: My child’s scholarship to preschool was revoked because he could not sit still.) When these instances began to overwhelm me, I cursed myself for writing that stupid blog post.
The class was a continual test of my confidence and self-esteem. I tried to resist comparing myself to the other instructors, but my menacing ego sometimes whispered that I wasn’t as strong or funny or pretty as the other participants. Pretty sure it’s not even legal to have good looks on a list of qualifications. Pun intended. While the threat of having my house toilet papered may have been in my head as I considered my commitment, I was also totally hooked on Pilates.
As I looked forward to the final class, “life” often interrupted my precise plan while the dynamic and requirements of class became a mental struggle. There were certain people, situations and cosmic signs that would have been the perfect excuse to stop going. Alas, I remained steadfast. I drove my (now slightly wounded) car to the WAC, put on a smile, and imagined that I was the best Pilates instructor around.
I did it! See you at class.