Pilates

I lied on my last blog when I said I hadn't achieved any of my New Year's resolutions. I forgot that I started a Pilates class on Friday. Pat on the back, Sandra, and a hearty 'well done!' The idea of Pilates appeals to me on several fronts. Firstly, I understood there was no jumping about, which always sets alarm bells ringing for me, on account of my little 'problem'. Jumping is not the only thing which sets it off, an unexpected cough, a choking fit, or a violent sneeze will also bring it on, but I can normally control those by crossing my legs in time. But nothing can stop it when doing star jumps.



Secondly, I like the idea of lying down for these sessions. Lying down is so much more relaxing than standing up, and it makes my stomach look quite flat.



Thirdly, I felt I should support the lovely lady who takes the class. She sorted out the trapped nerve in my neck,which had defied every other variety of medical expertise, from conventional medicine (they told me I had carpal tunnel syndrome) to Bowen (plain weird) and a chiropractor, who quite simply gave me the creeps. Everytime he 'manipulated' my neck, I thought he was going to kill me. Plus, he spent an inordinate amount of time analysing the sole of my trainers, which I thought a bit bizarre. He said they could tell the story of my posture. But he also told me that if I put frozen peas on my neck and then refroze them, I could die. He was South African.



Pilates's main message seems to be 'core stability', which involves lifting your pelvic floor muscle and pulling in your tummy from your belly button. Strengthening these muscles will apparently benefit your body in every way, by protecting your spine, and thus your nerve endings. Sounds good to me, plus, if I can ever actually locate my pelvic floor muscles, and therefore strengthen them, that will help with my little problem. Unfortunately, and rather dishearteningly, when the teacher said 'imagine the lift going up, now it's on the second, third, fourth..... all the way up to the eighth floor. Now hold it there', my lift had stopped at the first floor and plummeted back down to the ground floor before she had even mentioned the second, let alone the eighth floor.



Anne (my new found friend, who suffers a similar problem) and I commiserated with each other, but both of us left with the optimistic feeling that somehow this would be the miracle cure we had been searching for since the birth of our babies and the deterioration of our bodies. A shame there's nothing to be done about the stretch marks. At least we know that Greek men find them attractive.