Death by Pilates

Zach Labbay tried to kill me.

The trickiest of fellows, he was even able to make the attempt appear self-inflicted.

I do accept some responsibility. After completing a fairly intense personal training session with Catherine and the other Questers on Monday morning, I should have gone home.

Instead, I lingered, encouraging my heart rate to return to normal while I swigged off a bottle of water.

Jon lingered too, chatting about the 8:00 am Cardio Pilates class.

"You staying for it?" he asked.

Hell no, I thought. Before this program had even started, The Landing owner Deanna had mentioned how hard this class was. And she's IN SHAPE.

But then I'm a glutton for punishment. So I've got that.

I'd taken a pilates class once a year or two ago. Our time was spent on the mat, crunching and posing our bodies to the point of fatigue. It was all about the "core," I was told. But every part of me hurt afterward.

Zach's class, I soon learned, was more akin to a military boot camp. Perhaps the kind intended to force the weakest links to forfeit, cry and leave the field in shame.

We ran in place, lifting our knees high, then dropped down to do pushups.

We lunged and jumped and lunged again.

We sprinted around the mats and dropped to the floor for more pushups.

When Zach directed us to our mats I thought the hard part was over. But no, there was ab work to be done. There was a battle against gravity to be fought.

I wanted to bail. I wanted say "Enough!" and escape back to my apartment and cuddle up with some hash browns.

But I stayed. And sweat. And panted. And wrote a brief will in my head.

And just when my quads could take no more - just when my gluts were about to tear from my backside and die - we were done.

Done!

And for the rest of the day I moved with amplified confidence. Pride in its purest form.

Of course this morning I can barely move at all. But it's that good sort of immobility.