Pilates-land

I think I’ve spent a little too much time in suburbia. My time in metro Detroit this past week is making me want to ditch my Murano for a minivan, quit my job and move in with my parents. Okay, maybe not that last part, but at least until we find a nice split-level ranch on a tree-lined street.  As much as my family is bugging me, there’s something to be said about living in the ‘burbs.

Everyone has toned abs.

Seriously. I took my first Pilates class yesterday with my mom (who could kick my ass in the this department) and was blown away by the ab-tastic bodies lunging and squatting up a storm. I never knew suburbia could look this good. This is not to say I’m unhappy with the way my body looks. I’m fitting into my old clothes again and my biceps are pretty toned from lugging around a 23-pound dead weight known as my son.  But I honestly haven’t spent much time focusing on my abs. My flab-tastic abs.

This is why I agreed to endure a class labeled “Total Body Conditioning.” I should have known I was in trouble when the teacher asked us to get 2 elastic bands, a set of weights and something called a “Foam Roller.” I obliged and took my spot in the second-to-last row, albeit it with the lightest weights possible and a green band (green=easy.) When the music started pumping I thought, “I can do this, I can.” I leg-lifted and stretch-banded and twisted. I criss-crossed my arms, I did tricep exercises until my forearm burned. I was now determined to prove that I could be just as ab-tastic as these perfectly coiffed Wisteria Lane wannabes.

Until the teacher switched my band from green to red (red=hard.) She said I could do it. I thought she was crazy.

The remainder of the class was me looking like a Richard Simmons video drop-out. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep up with the flexes, and the squats and the push-ups. I hate push-ups. By the eightieth eye-roll to my mom at the end of class she could tell I’d had enough. When the music stopped, I was very relieved to peel myself off of the mat and into my mom’s air-conditioned SUV. When we pulled away from the the studio a wash of happiness rolled over me. I was free of perfect abs and toned bodies. 

It was then that I snapped out of my suburbia delusions. I realized I don’t need to be ab-tastic. I’m fine with my flab and the little roll of skin that bubbles up over my jeans.  I’ll keep my city life just the way it is. I’m not ready for Pilates-land just yet.

Tags: Pilates, suburbs

Clarification: Some of my friends are mad at me for posting that I have flabby abs. But my definition of “flab-tastic” doesn’t mean I’m fat. I’m not. It is referring to you know, that extra skin that you just can’t seem to get rid of post-partum. Even skinny moms have the flab.