Pilatification

Signs that I am turning into a Hollywood cliche:
-job in the indie music world mandates that I treat those in the outside world as inferiors
-eccentric European parents, failed actor brother
-spend weekends riding around Malibu in hot foreign boyfriend's hot foreign convertible
-have LOJACK on my 1985 Volvo 240 (just kidding)
-am showing more vigilance than ever before towards enforcing the concept of matching shoes and handbags
-wear jeans to work, wear jeans to go out, wear jeans to sleep, wear jeans to shower
-and the latest - yoga and pilates. ("...in a room that's full of hotties") (used without permission)

I've been doing yoga for a few years now. After trying various forms of yoga I have settled into the mellower ones like hatha and kundalini because I found that what I really enjoy about yoga is the sensation of the poses. I like holding the poses. I like learning about how you can use your lungs to stretch out your back, and how you can increase circulation in your lymph nodes by repeating a subtle movement with your arms for eleven minutes. I am constantly amazed at how much pain you can inflict upon yourself without the aid of machines or weights. Mind-boggling!!! But I like going through the poses slowly and really understanding how they work.

What I hate is the bullshit psuedo-spiritualism that seems to accompany yoga in many LA studios. There's one I went to on Fairfax that had a statue of Shiva at the front of the room. The instructor asked us to chant with her in Sanskrit an incantation to Shiva. I felt very uncomfortable.

I'm sorry but Shiva has no place in my modern urban world. I can accept Shiva as a mythological figure, in art, in literature, in theater. But as a physical presence in my life?

ok. I digress. Will post more on that later.

The point of this post was to say that I had my first pilates class yesterday. The instructor, Bruce, was an expired hipster who talked like an auctioneer. Bruce the Expired Hipster is probably around 45 years old. He wears a trucker hat and jeans that are so low that they might fall to the ground if you look at them the wrong way.

Bruce mispronounces my name. I wouldn't care so much but he's one of those people that say people's names a lot. Being called Roseanna instantly shoots me back to my grade school years, where most of the people who said the word Roseanna were usually doing it to either
a) rhyme it with banana (so original)
b) say Roseanne-Roseanna-Danna (SO original)
c) invoke that fateful Toto song (so FUCKING original)
d) shout "GODDAMMIT ROSEANNA EITHER HIT THE BALL OR GET OUT OF THE WAY"

Option d) is from gym class. But that's the one that comes back to me the most. So hearing it from my pilates instructor makes me very, very sad.

But back to the auctioneer-speak. It went something like this:
"Ok, Roseanna, now I want you to flex your toes while you're pushing your heels-all-the-way-behind-the-bar-Roseanna-and-you're-straighteningyourkneesRoseananandtighteningthatrearendRoseannaandpushingyourbackintothematandpullingyourstomachintoyourbackasfarasitwillgoRoseannameanwhileyou'rewideningthoseshouldersandpushingeverythingintothemat and...breathing...out."

Sometimes he made up little rhymes. The were so stupid. "Flex those toes and lift that rear, meanwhile stretch that neck my dear". Stuff like that.

I started laughing. It totally broke my concentration. Finally I told Bruce to stop distracting me. I think he thinks I'm some stupid vulnerable chubby little girl, looking for an escape from my desperate everyday existence. That's the sort of girl whose name you say over and over again to try to artificially gain her trust and boost her confidence. That's the sort of girl who needs stupid rhymes to relax her and create a "safe zone" where she'll want to come back and keep paying $60 time after time to recreate that feeling of comfort.

If this is the case (and I realize I am being completely judgemental but this IS my space to be so), then Bruce does not know who he is dealing with. Wait until I get the bill and haggle the trendy $120 tank top off his back. ha ha...

All that being said, I did enjoy pilates. I am hurting today in places that I didn't realize knew how to hurt. And I think it's good that I didn't hit it off right away with Bruce. I think I need some friction so that I don't get too comfortable and stay focused on the work.

My best trainer thus far was Ian. I found him arrogant and condescending when I first started fencing. I remember glaring at him through my mask while he was looking at my lunge with disgust. He had made me advance into a very low lunge, and was correcting me with his foil. "This knee should point that way." (poke) "This knee should point the other way." (poke poke) "Back straight." (poke) "Elbow in" (poke)

It felt like I was holding the pose for an hour inside a minute. It was so painful. The muscles in my right leg started to spasm and I thought I was going to fall over. Ian stepped back. Ian observed. Ian started walking away and said casually over his shoulder, "You can go lower".

I glared at him through my mask and thought, "Oh, little man. I will get you back for this. Someday."

I think that in the long run, I did get him back. Ian is now a very close friend, and we have since traded places. I get to yell at him when he's being stupid with women, and he has to listen to my convoluted rants and raves about all sorts of fun things. Touche, Pussycat!

So anyway. This pilates thing. I'm glad Bruce is a character. It gives me something to blog about. And I think the pilates method is gonna work. I keep hearing Melissa's voice in the back of my head. Melissa is my guru of all things body-related. When I told her I'm trying pilates she said, "Dude! You're gonna be, like, SO BUFF!" This is now my mantra...

"dude, you're gonna be like so buff.....dude, you're gonna be like so buff..."

Now if only I could find the appropriate diety to whom I could direct said mantra....