Pilates It Is A Great Place To Meet Girls!
“Yay! I love when guys come to class!” the perfect physical specimen of a Pilates instructor said very cheerleaderishly before class started. “Pilates are great for everybody. Plus it’s a great place to meet girls!”
I’d been to this class before. Different instructor then. And when this instructor said Pilates was a great place to meet women, I knew that she was full of crap.
I mean, yeah, from the outside, Pilates should be a great place to meet incredibly gorgeous women.
I looked around at the other people in class. The only other guy, just as fat as me, looked back at the instructor and then around at the women in the room as if he’d just landed in a room full of treasure. Most of the women in that class were at an almost-equal level to the instructor. Super flexible. Super strong. Super toned. Super hot. Super out of my league.
But even if they were in my league, I still knew the instructor was full of crap. Because I knew what was coming… An hour of sheer hell that would leave this fat guy (and guaranteed that fat guy over there) far more undatable than he was when he first walked into the room.
It would start with this maneuver where we pick up a swiss ball up, swing it high over our heads, then down by our feet, and then repeat about six thousand times. Every time I lift the ball above my head, my fat white hairy belly pokes its naked self out like a groundhog coming out of its hole on a sunny day.
Then we’d do this thing where we lay on our backs, put one foot on a medicine ball and do pelvic thrusts. As I continually collapse and groan beneath my own weight, any woman who may have potentially been interested would think only one thought. That’s one guy I’d never want in the sack.
Then we’d do this thing where we do these lunges, stand on our tippy toes, and then swing arms, legs, and whatever else in an attempt to strengthen ourselves. I never have the goal of strengthening myself. I only ever have the goal of surviving. And all the women can see it in my face.
Then we’d do this thing where our cores use muscles that apparently I don’t have. And I’d collapse again. Only this time, I’d let out an accidental and giant groan. Who is this guy and why is he here? Women’s thoughts are never hard to hear.
Then I’d look at the clock and for some reason we’d only be half done. At this point, I would look at the floor beneath me. Thousands of drops of sweat are starting to form a puddle on the wood floor. I look at the floor beneath all the women. No sweat. Not even a drop. All the women will soon notice my sweat and think I’m the grossest person on earth.
Then I’d look at my shirt. Gross. There are no longer areas of sweat. They’ve all merged into one, and my entire shirt is six shades darker than when I started, with salt lines starting to appear.
Then, five minutes later, I’d begin uncomfortably shifting in my uncomfortably sweaty shorts. Enough said about that.
About 45 minutes in, I’d just be pretending to do what everyone else was doing and they’d all know it. They wouldn’t say anything, but they’d certainly think, holy crap I’m glad I’m not dating that guy.
50 minutes in, I’d be looking at the clock every few seconds. As I get down into the low plank position, I’d bite my lip to keep from crying. I would look at the clock once more, tumble out of position, and kick someone else’s swiss ball off of their station. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I’d say as I jumped up to grab it. I wouldn’t really be sorry. I’m just happy to get out of the plank. And they’d all know it.
With five minutes left, we start stretching. I guess it’s stretching. The instructor and her cronies are all doing things that I’m *pretty* sure are impossible for human beings to do. Wrapping their arms around their feet and whatnot, I’m pretty sure while doing full splits. Whatever.I reach down and grab my calves. It’s as far as this fat boy is willing (and able) to reach.
“Now, exhale and reach even lower,” the instructor would shout. I know she’s looking right at me, wondering how it was possible for anyone to be that inflexible. I pretend to exhale. I pretend to reach lower. Just freaking end already, I would plead to an ever slowing clock.
This is my fifth time doing Pilates and with two minutes left, I’d look over at the other fat guy who was there for the first (and probably last) time. He died some time ago and nobody noticed. They just think he’s tuckered and resting like all fat boys do. But I know better.
Ten seconds left. The instructor looks around the room and tells us all that we are doing so good. We have been improving so much. She’s talking to me. She’s talking to me the way she would a small child. She’s attempting to keep me from hating her and infinitely worse, hating Pilates and never coming back.
I look back over at the dead guy. Then at all the women.
Pilates is definitely not the place to meet women. In, or out, of my league.
PS. How about you? Ever feel like the gym (or any physical activity) is when you look your absolute worst?