Happy Sunday. That’s me, getting ready to go do some Power Pilates , which has pretty much been saving my life lately. Make no mistake. Power pilates is not like regular pilates. Every week I let Lisa persecute my ass six ways from Sunday and I sweat out so much aggravation in the process it’s incredible.
I mean, obviously it’s brutally horrible. Most of the time I want to vomit while I watch my sweat pool up on the proformer (reformer? the machine you do this crazy-ass sato-pilates on) but when Lisa trots by with her stop watch and tells me “c’mon. It’s one more minute. You can do anything for a minute.” I totally believe her, and my ass has never looked better. Seriously. Even when I was 30 lbs lighter my ass wasn’t this tight. And I can feel my abs engaging again. But that’s not why I do it. I do it because for one hour a week, my body is working for ME. I’ve been rented out for so long to Babymaking, Inc. that it’s cathartic to spend an hour torturing my body on my own behalf. That, and Lisa has really good taste in workout tunes.
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