I think it’s about twelve months now that I have been partaking in regular bouts of pilates and yoga.
I did do a Body Pump class in that time, too. Just the once. It was okay, I just didn’t make it back. Probably because I didn’t enjoy it so much. Or just … because.
Pilates is good.
I struggled a bit with yoga.
Not because it was too airy-fairy and woo woo and ‘spiritual.
The class I do isn’t.
Not because the instructor stops every 47 seconds to spend a minute and a half talking about the next pose, including, but not limited to the spiritualness, zenness, and Getting In Touch With Your Higher Beingness of it.
The class I do isn’t like that.
And not because it is filled with pervy men who only go to look at the bottoms of slim, blonde, spread eagled and bent over schmexy-hot looking women.
The class I do has neither.
Or, well, maybe it does. I haven’t really noticed any hot looking bods of any gender or non-gender, and I haven’t felt any awkwardness, nor seen any pervy staring. From any pervy type person, of any selection from the rainbow spectrum of gender or non-gender.
None of those things.
When I first started, I’d watch the instructor; tall and slim, small of bosom, blonde-bobbed of hair, and funky legginged.
She’d move with grace from one move to the next, rarely ever having to adjust her hands or feet as she downward dogged before smoothly transitioning