It was definitely not your typical pilates class . . .

Back in June I revamped my nothing ventured blog because this time I was determined to start making those necessary life changes and feel back in control of my life. Luckily public humiliation is no stranger to me (loads of practice taking the BBC News Quiz at Archie’s every Friday) as not many of those well-intentioned intentions have become, shall we say, second nature here at casa az. Yet.

Well okay, I have continued going to yoga three times a week and (usually) go upstairs to ride the dreaded exercise bike for 10kms afterwards, but I hadn’t gone back to pilates classes as intended, mostly because when I tried it last year I just didn’t enjoy the way the class was taught. But then I found out that we have a new pilates instructor at the gym and today I decided to check her out . . .

I was really hoping it was going to be the woman who substitued once last year (‘year’ in this case meaning September to July – there aren’t any classes at my gym in August) because she was fabulous. But nope, it was another woman, a woman called M.

I should have known from the start that this wasn’t going to be your typical pilates class. First of all, M had put a sign up on the outside of the door saying that strict punctuality is required and anyone showing up late for class would not be allowed in (or out? 😕 ). Then, while I was getting my mat and stuff organised, I heard a trio of women in the corner talking to each other sotto voce , comparing M to the previous instructor, with much eye-rolling going on. And then M herself strutted in wearing a skin tight tank top and baggy combat trousers (made out of some stiff plasticky material that went swish-swish-swish when she walked) and presumably steel-toed trainers.

I tried making myself look small (no mean feat when you’re 25 kilos overweight) and was clearly unsuccessful as M spotted me immediately and barked “new, eh?”. I said something like “eep!” while she rattled off a few instructions for newbies and then she yelled at everyone to LIE DOWN ON THEIR MATS. And well, there is no way to explain the next hour and do M justice, but I have never experienced such a terrible fitness instructor in all my life – and that’s saying a lot.

It wasn’t just that she was rude and dismissive (calling women almost twice her age ‘chicas’ and constantly saying we weren’t paying attention, etc, etc) but her class was actually crap. I didn’t feel like I’d had an all-over body workout in the slightest, certainly not like I do when I finish yoga class. And when she finally put on some music (about 20 minutes into the class) it wasn’t even very nice. So once that hour from hell was over and done I went upstairs to ride the bike, feeling sad and dismayed that they’d traded one bad instructor for an even worse one and wondering what else I could do on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at the gym to pick up my ‘doing more’ excercise schedule.

Then on my way out I went to pick up my coat (which I’d left in the pilates room, forgetting about the 11am pilates class and feeling sure that M was going to disembowel me with the spring-loaded spikes in the toes of her trainers) and I heard some very pretty ‘plinkety-plink’ piano music and peeked around the corner. There was a young guy I’d never seen before giving the 11 o’clock class and the people taking it looked quite happy and also very graceful as they went through a few stretching motions. And hope leapt in my heart once again.

You see, I was only able to go to the 9.30 class today because one of my students is away in Rome this week – normally I’d have to go at 11.00. So … yay! That is, if this guy is always teaching at that time. Because, well, he couldn’t be worse than Ilsa M, could he? I’ll let you know Thursday.