Took a pilates class. Mat class. It was a slow day at the gym because people seemed to have already left New York for the long weekend which would end up being a short week away for some considering a Wednesday departure is well, midweek. When does a long weekend become a short week? I prefer to call it a Fat Weekend tacked on to a Skinny Week. I wish our forefathers had thought this all through because they started declaring independence all over the place.
Enough with a history lesson, I took pilates. I walked in with a semi "I did this all the time in LA so there" attitude tucked under where my belt usually is. Then Mike, the teacher, hovered over and proceeded to tell me that my rib cage was puffed out and I was hyper-extending my back. Thinking, "I just haven't been touched in a while, that is all," but I had seemingly left my diaphragm in the shower. This was just like a bad golf game, there was no going back. That damn rib cage wouldn't go down no matter how many times it was called to the chalk board in front the class.
Nevertheless, I persevered and tried to stay as open as a hyper-extender could be. Mike asked me in front of the whole class if I was a dancer. My ribs pulled through as the shadow of them covered my blush. I said, "Jamais!"
There is no point to this at all except to say I am still in the City, I don't tuck my pelvis as much as I should and one's past, like one's ribs, can often pop up.
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