As summer rapidly approaches, we would all like to look a little better in a bathing suit, myself included. But wanting something and actually doing what it takes to get it are two very different things.
That's why I constantly excuse myself from going to the SERF—""It's raining out"" or ""I have too much work to do"" or ""I'd rather sit at home and fatass instead"" (fa-tass, verb: the act of being a fat ass. The man fa-tassed as he ate a jar of Nutella while simultaneously driving).
But with the recent warm weather I've had a change of heart. I'm dedicating the next few weeks to the idea of getting into shape, while remaining in the comfort of my own home. This is made possible through my roommate introducing me to one fierce little woman. Her name is Mari Winsor, the developer of Pilates—and let me tell you, she aint playin'.
As I popped in ""The Accelerated Body Sculpting"" tape and sat down in front of my television, I sighed with relief as the older, four-foot woman came onscreen. This would be a cakewalk. She then introduced her team of smiling trainers wearing periwinkle spandex named Susannah, Brendali, Dena and Saul (the token man of color among a sea of white women).
And of course there was Dagny, ""the modifier."" Modifier is really just a nice term Mari uses for ‘person who can't really do the workout because they're feeble and pathetic, therefore must do a modified version.' Poor Dagny.
The first few drills weren't too bad. I managed to keep my powerhouse (also known as abs) tight and my back straight. I even laughed a little when Mari would say, ""If you have delicate shoulders and can't reach your arms this high, just put them behind your head,"" as the camera panned to Dagny motionlessly sitting with her legs in the air while the rest of the trainers violently pumped their limbs.
But fifteen minutes in, my body was trembling as I tried to hold the positions with sweat dripping down my back. Susannah's showoff-because-I'm-a-contortionist ways were starting to piss me off, and Mari's peppy but deceitful words weren't helping.
Exercises that make you want to scream with pain should not be named The Bicycle, The Can-can or The Mermaid—more appropriate would be The Poison Apple, The Dying Puppy and The Black Plague. And giving the viewer 2.8 seconds to stretch afterward should not be called ""a little piece of heaven."" It simply means you have somewhat of a soul.
The third time she gave me the same command, I shot it back at the TV: ""Damn it, Mari, why don't you tweeze your buttocks!?"" or ""My God, woman, how about you stop hula dancing at the hips!"" Dagny's moves weren't looking so lame anymore.
But somehow I managed to finish the hour-long video before passing out, and even watched it again two days later. It killed to bend my legs, but the burn was a wonderful, satisfying burn I hadn't felt in a long time.
I may not love Mari Winsor, but I sure as hell respect her because she knows what she's talking about. I'm pretty sure if I keep up with the tapes and work my butt off (literally and figuratively), I should see results by the time summer rolls around... but first, some Nutella.
Thanks to Mari's (or Kanye's) Workout Plan, are you the envy of all your friends? Tell Julia at shiplett@wisc.edu.
