I went to the gym last night, and instead of my usual hour of running and Stairmastering, I figured I'd give one of the classes a try. I checked the schedule and saw that "Fit Ball and Pilates" was being offered at 7:30, so I hung around the room and waited for it to begin.

A few other women were waiting outside of the room, so I approached one woman and had the following exchange with her:

Me: "Are you waiting for the Pilates class to start?"
Her: "Yeah."
Me: "Do I need a...mat, or something?"
Her: "No, they provide mats."
Me: "Okay. I've actually never taken a class at the gym before, and I've been coming here for almost a year."
Her: "Really? Well, I've taken the Pilates class before, and it's really good."
Me: "Okay then..."

Well, this woman gave her "It's really good" seal of approval, so maybe I'll get a good workout. I decided to ignore the fact that she was slightly chunky and instead convinced myself that she was just sporting lots of (flabby) muscle from all the Pilates she does.

The instructor eventually showed up and ushered us into the class. She was your typical cookie-cutter Yoga/Pilates master, with lean muscles, a short pixie haircut, and a tendency to add a slight hippie emphasis to her words (e.g. "You real-ly wan-t to breeeeathe in and ou-t"). She was also sporting those almost-pants length workout pants that every woman at the gym wears. I looked around the room and confirmed that, indeed, I was the only person who wasn't wearing either almost-pants or short terrycloth shorts. I guess I never got my gift card to the Almost Pants and Short Shorts Emporium. Sigh. Always the bridesmaid, never the Almost Pants or Terrycloth Shorts wearer.

After everyone set up their mats, they all proceeded to take off their shoes and socks. Wait a sec, we're working out barefoot? What the crap? I'm pretty sure my feet stunk. I mean, I've been walking around all day, and I didn't think it would be terribly polite to unleash the profound stench of "footy" to my classmates.

Me (whispering to the lady next to me): "Are we supposed to take our shoes off?"
Her: "Yes."
Me: "What about our socks?"
Her: "I'd recommend it."

She'd recommend it? What if I left my socks on? Would I get whipped to death by a bunch of middle-aged women wielding stretching bands, all the while having "Socked outsider!" shouted at me?

I took off my shoes and socks, unleashing my potentially funky foot smell to the world (though I'm pretty sure that a good percentage of these women would have taken a sniff and exclaim, "Mmmm, I love patchouli!"), and sat down on the mat. After cueing up the Enya CD (yep, Enya), the instructor told us to do various exercises with the fit ball, all the while "inhaling in the way down, exhaling on the way up," "sucking your belly in," and "rolling up through your back." In my head all of these instructions translated to "Do some fucking situps."

My favorite bit of advice was when the instructor told us to clench our stomach muscles and to pretend that we're "pitting a prune." She explained that "pitting a prune" basically means to tighten up your ass and crotch. (I have no idea how the analogy correlates.) We obliged, and we clenched.

And then the lady next to me farted.

During our hour of no-impact exercising (am I supposed to be sweating? Because I'm not), the instructor had "female" chats with us that included talking about how macho the men who lifted weights at our gym thought they were (hey, I lift weights...), and complaining about the woes of leg shaving. I was being overwhelmed by estrogen. It's like I was taking Pilates with the Stepford Wives. Or with Rufus Wainwright.

The instructor kept chirping, "Take a rest if you need to, ladies," and several women would respond by huffing and puffing themselves off their fit ball to take a breather. I looked around in wonder and marvelled at how much difficulty these flabby, Almost-Pants-wearing women were having with basic ab exercises, stretching, and balancing. I suppose that if you're actually, you know, in shape, then this is not the class for you.

At the end of the workout, we all filed out of the room. I guess we were supposed to feel empowered by the fact that we spent sixty minutes sitting on a ball and burning roughly 50 calories, but I was scowling at the thought of how I could have burned about 700 if I had skipped the damn class and run on a treadmill for an hour.

And now, a quick summary of why I think Pilates is lame:

1. I don't wear Almost-Pants. I wear basketball shorts, damnit, and I like wearing them.
2. I actually enjoy sweating when I work out. Sweating means my body is working hard. To me, a workout is deemed "rewarding" if I can wring a Double Dare bucket's worth of sweat out of my tank top. I don't sweat when I stretch and balance for an hour.
3. I don't trust the efficacy of a workout you can do barefoot.
   
4. Nor do I want my peers to be so relaxed during a workout that they're squirting out an occasional fart.
   
5. Enya? Enya?!

No thanks, Pilates. You're just not the workout for me. I think I'll stick to treadmills and Stairmasters.

Stay tuned for my next workout installment, "Yoga: Sort of Lame or Super Lame?"