It was a cold Monday night when I decided that it was finally time to become the person I was always meant to be.
That person did pilates.
I’m 27 years old and I’ve done pilates precisely one time. It was on my lounge room floor with a friend when I was 15 and I got bored halfway through and so just sat there with a curved spine breathing deeply and patting my dog.
But something told me there was more to it. I read in a magazine renowned for telling lots of lies, that Jennifer Aniston does pilates. I’ve always imagined after one lesson, I would grow 10 centimetres taller, get a tan, prance instead of simply walk and have a body that was offensively toned.
For some context, I can’t touch my toes. A few months ago, after sitting on the floor for too long, I stood up and my knee collapsed on itself and I fell over a coffee table. My knees always look swollen and sometimes people comment. One time I sneezed and slipped a disk in my lower back. My physio doesn’t know why I don’t have quads or glutes or abdominal muscles, but is understandably horrified and said something about doing exercises that I promptly forgot about.
In short, I am a pilates instructor’s worst nightmare.
So on Monday, I found a class around the corner from my house. I imagined mats. Some… lunging. Maybe some laying on your back and breathing.