The Pain for Which We Pay

Each Monday and Wednesday, I reaffirm the fact that the Devil does not wear Prada like recent film and pulp fiction would have us believe … rather, it wears a little white tank top and nags me to pull my navel into my spine. Ah, yes.  Pilates class. For two hours a week, I pay for the pleasure (?) of being instructed through my group Pilates reformer class.  As well, both evenings following I am haunted by the innocent chirping of my dear instructor’s voice saying “Do you feel that?” while her doe eyes look on at the beads of sweat forming on my brow as I work muscles I didn’t know I had.  While I could take another flip through the Grey’s Anatomy tome in an attempt to construct a viable argument as to why my body does not “go” that way, I think my time is better spent pondering why I continue to return week after week for my scheduled torture. Truth be known, I love it.  Fuck, I’m a glutton for punishment and the bottom line is I relish each and every one of those classes like a huge slice of lemonNothing Bundt Cake laid before me accompanied by a gift-wrapped fork. Come to think of it, Nothing Bundt Cake should open-up a location adjacent to my Pilates Studio…talk about a symbiotic relationship… I salivate at the thought of the evil contraptions with the “fuzzy” attachments going to war with the gyros salad I had at Paymon’s earlier that day for lunch.  While it’s inevitable that my entire body will bitch-slap me like a pimp after each class (if raising my arms were even a possibility), I’ve signed-on to be part of the stable of the Beeyatches Who Need an Ass Whoopin’ (and aren’t afraid to write a check for it). We all have something in our lives, I think, that we put ourselves through regardless of the pain it brings … and why?  Because we’re doing good work when we do it.  There exists a little bit of a slacker in me, regardless of how neatly my closet is arranged (shirts by sleeve length, then skirts, then pants, then dresses, then contemplation of if therapy should be sought for my OCD).  If I’m tied to a chair in a basement somewhere and some guy in a fedora is asking me where the bloody diamonds are — I’ll crack.  I give!  I pay for it because I won’t do it on my own!  Stop!  Please!  There is occasionally clean laundry that is not put away, a dishwasher run and then forgotten about, and I still don’t have any godforsaken baseboards in my house…I will shirk painting my bathroom in favor of rock climbing, and I’m horrible about letting magazine subscriptions expire. My twice-a-week flogging at the hands of the doe-eyed Beelzebub in a white tank top — I actually look forward to it.  I am quite sure that the expressions that cross my face throughout the hours I’m there are, indeed, priceless, and I am thoroughly convinced that Beelzebub cannot count.  “Eight more” inevitably turns into thirteen, and there are days I just want to scream “I just did eight and F*CK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”  However, to do so would be to deny the fact that I crave that nausea-inducing buildup of lactic acid in my “whatever” muscle and relegate myself to the Land of the Whiny Little Bitch as the other women in the class trudge through their “eight more” as if they hail from Stepford. I made the mistake one day of mentioning that I thought some sheepskin-lined straps on one of the machines looked “friendly and comfy.” Beelzebub showed me that they are not friendly.  Heed my warnings, Partakers of Pilates — do not be tempted by their plush appearance.  They are Evil wearing a plush coat to lure you into their fold, and once your ankle is firmly planted, they will suck the life out of your leg like a venus fly trap with prey in its grasp. I don’t think it’s so wrong to admit to myself that one of my shortcomings is doing “good work” in certain areas.  If I’m at the gym, I can quit working out anytime I want and just call Time of Death and rationalize my way into the sauna for the last half hour.  The plain truth is – I want to get better at this Pilates thing, and I know it’s not going to happen on my own.  Resigning myself to indentured servitude for two hours a week seems to be the least I can do if I’m serious about this, because I know I can’t quit in the middle. I’m trapped, like Paris Hilton in an LA county jail without her cell phone.  Trapped in the worst way.  Yet, for me in this instance, I’m trapped in the best way possible: for my own good. So I say — PEOPLE!  Go forth and trap thyself!  Git yerself hogtied to whatever it is that you want to improve in life, as sometimes, the “good work” we need to do requires a little bit of supervision…a dab of babysitting.  Our sado-masochistic sides all need to utter the occasional “Yes, Mistress!” (gag ball sold separately) It’s likely that’s what I’ll say as I pay for my next block of 10 classes next week.  May I have another? Corefit Pilates Studio…ask for Beelzebub, er, I mean Jessica.

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