The Fatslayer Chronicles

I’m thinking about going to a Pilates class, mainly because I can no longer ignore the fact that I have the flexibility of an octogenarian, and unless I take some serious steps to make myself a bit more supple I probably won’t be able to bend over and tie my shoelaces by the time I’m 50.

I’ve heard good and bad things about Pilates, the good being that over time it gives you abs and posture to die for, and the bad being that it’s horribly, torturously hard work, and that when you first start going to classes you get your arse whupped by hard-core pensioners who are as bendy as pipe-cleaners.

Just thinking about going is a very significant development for me, though, and if it leads to actual attendance at classes it’ll be a minor miracle. If I do go along it will be the first formal exercise class that I’ve ever attended.

The whole 80s aerobic phenomenon passed me by so completely that it was barely even a blip on my radar screen. I never climbed aboard the Fame/Jane Fonda bandwagon and rushed out to buy a pair of leg warmers, and I’ve never been the proud possessor of a sweat-band or a hi-cut leotard. My sports of choice have been swimming, cycling and walking, and I’ve never joined a class and done circuits, step, spinning or yoga. I’ve never done ballet, jazz, latin or tap dancing. I’ve never Cored or Pumped my body (both of which sound nasty and painful). Nor have I ever done kick-boxing, karate, judo, tae-kwando or tai-chi, nor boxercise, salsacise or jazzercise,

Patently, I’m not a joiner. The whole organised exercise thing is linked inextricably in my psyche with school memories of doing ‘music and movement’ in only my vest and pants when I was 5 (pretending to be ‘a tree’ or ‘a breeze’), through inadequacy-inducing ‘dance productions’ and lung-busting cross country runs as a lumpy overweight teenager. All, of course, conducted against a backdrop of communal showers and jolly-hockey-sticks camaraderie. To me, school gym classes were an Orwellian nightmare of enforced socialization.

It’s hardly surprising, therefore, that the whole concept of being corralled into a gym or dance studio with 50 other women, playing follow my leader with some hideous Rosemary Conley-esque Barbie doll, is anathema to me. If I had to choose between a) formal exercise classes or b) having electrodes attached to my genitals whilst being flogged with a knotted rope, it wouldn’t be a foregone conclusion that I’d choose option A. Yes, I hate the thought of formal exercise classes that much!

Not only would it be unprecedented for me to do this sort of thing, but also I’d be going with a work colleague, which would also be a first for me. Doing things en masse isn’t really my style, so I’ve never gone down the girly-bonding route, complete with joint gym memberships, going to the toilet together, co-ordinating your binge/purge habits or synchronising your menstrual cycles. I’m far too anti-social and reclusive to do anything in company – so tagging along with a colleague would be a real behavioural change for me.

So for the moment Pilates is a ‘thought in progress’ and between now and Friday I’ll probably chicken out and scurry back into my hermit hole. But for the time being I’m enjoying the warm glow of thinking about doing some exercise – it’s making me feel virtuous and energetic. If I could just find a way to sustain the glow without actually going to the classes, that would be fantastic.