I mean, look at this thing:
But working on it wasn't really torture. In fact, it felt pretty good.
Peddling backwards, now...I've been fretting for a few months about the inevitable changes to la body de Veronique wrought by age and hormones. None of the things I did at the tender age of, let's say, twenty-four have been having an effect. Though I'm sure my cardio work helps my heart, it certainly hasn't been doing one gursh thing for gracefully distributing my weight into the right spots. And, just as bad, weight training has made me—already naturally broad-shouldered—even more so. This does nothing to create the pleasant sensation of feeling pretty, oh-so-pretty, oh-so-pretty, and witty, and gay. In fact, it has created the decidely unpleasant sensation of feeling dowdy, oh-so-dowdy, oh-so-dowdy, and frumpy and lame.
Which is how I wound up enlisting right-hand gal pal A. to join me for an introductory session at our neighborhood Pilates studio. The postural assessment alone was worth my time. I like the precision of movement required and the fact that you have to think the whole time. It's a little different from turning on the iPod and flipping through People while sweating on the elliptical trainer thingy. And of course I love the claim that—nature be damned!—I will end up long and lean. For my body structure, that is. We shall see. Anyways, it's no surprise that the trainer advised me to stop weight training (which shortens the muscles) altogether for now. Um, no problem...