Initially, (foolishly) I thought my pilates class on Monday was taxing. I went with a friend and the two of us were the only non-middle-aged-housewives in attendance. You would think that this would equate to an easier class than what we were used to at school. In Champaign, we would attend giant yogalates classes filled with 18-22 year old girls (plus a consistent, albeit confusing, sprinkling of burly football players). I never once got singled out for inaccurate plank posture, and after a hard day of reclining in lecture halls, I could lay my mat out in a back corner of the room and no one would notice if I slacked off in chair pose or failed to sink low enough during lunges.
On Monday, however, the instructor of our very small pilates class felt the need to challenge us "young girls." The housewives got to do poses on their knees or elbows to accommodate for 'old, aching joints', while the instructor would simultaneously offer specific modified versions meant to whip our two young bodies into tip-top-shape. Unwilling to shame myself by sinking to my elbows or knees like the silver-haired ladies on either side of me, I spent (what I thought was a) brutal hour balancing on shaking muscles and suffered for the next two days when I couldn't laugh or sneeze without severe pain in my aching abs. For two whole days, I thought this was as bad as it could get.
Then this morning, I tried Hot Vinyasa Yoga.
Monday's instructor conned my friend and I into returning for her class today by appealing to our desire for toned summer swimsuit bodies and a more well-rounded weekly workout regimen. I thought being singled out in beginning pilates on Monday was rough. False. Rough is an hour and a half of yoga in a tiny, dimly-lit room heated to a temperature of ONE HUNDRED DEGREES. Holding Warrior 1 for an inordinate amount of time is difficult; holding Warrior 1 while sweat pours off of you adds new depth to the concept 'tough workout.' And to add insult to injury? The old man directly behind me was freakishly flexible, shaming me with his ability to contort into the most advanced stages of Eagle Pose.
The worst part? I understand why people go back to these classes. Around the 25-minutes-in-mark (to this hour and a half class), you are attempting to keep rivulets of sweat from rolling into your eyes and silently swearing you will never try anything other than the elliptical ever again. However, the last 15 minutes, the instructor takes you through an amazingly relaxing cool-down. As she tells you to relax every muscle in your body from your big-toe to your tongue, reads inspirational Emerson quotes, and discusses the importance of bringing fluidity and grace to all parts of your life, you are lulled into forgetting the torturous, sweaty misery that was the last hour of your morning. You consider maybe, just maybe, returning next week.
The jury is still out on Hot Vinyasa Yoga. I suspect that when I wake up tomorrow morning, my muscles will be so sore, I'll be stuck in bed like an invalid all day. But if I obtain the toned obliques and inner-serenity that my cool, tattooed, hippie instructor promised, I might be back, drenched in sweat and regretting my attraction to yoga.
On Monday, however, the instructor of our very small pilates class felt the need to challenge us "young girls." The housewives got to do poses on their knees or elbows to accommodate for 'old, aching joints', while the instructor would simultaneously offer specific modified versions meant to whip our two young bodies into tip-top-shape. Unwilling to shame myself by sinking to my elbows or knees like the silver-haired ladies on either side of me, I spent (what I thought was a) brutal hour balancing on shaking muscles and suffered for the next two days when I couldn't laugh or sneeze without severe pain in my aching abs. For two whole days, I thought this was as bad as it could get.
Then this morning, I tried Hot Vinyasa Yoga.
Monday's instructor conned my friend and I into returning for her class today by appealing to our desire for toned summer swimsuit bodies and a more well-rounded weekly workout regimen. I thought being singled out in beginning pilates on Monday was rough. False. Rough is an hour and a half of yoga in a tiny, dimly-lit room heated to a temperature of ONE HUNDRED DEGREES. Holding Warrior 1 for an inordinate amount of time is difficult; holding Warrior 1 while sweat pours off of you adds new depth to the concept 'tough workout.' And to add insult to injury? The old man directly behind me was freakishly flexible, shaming me with his ability to contort into the most advanced stages of Eagle Pose.
The worst part? I understand why people go back to these classes. Around the 25-minutes-in-mark (to this hour and a half class), you are attempting to keep rivulets of sweat from rolling into your eyes and silently swearing you will never try anything other than the elliptical ever again. However, the last 15 minutes, the instructor takes you through an amazingly relaxing cool-down. As she tells you to relax every muscle in your body from your big-toe to your tongue, reads inspirational Emerson quotes, and discusses the importance of bringing fluidity and grace to all parts of your life, you are lulled into forgetting the torturous, sweaty misery that was the last hour of your morning. You consider maybe, just maybe, returning next week.
The jury is still out on Hot Vinyasa Yoga. I suspect that when I wake up tomorrow morning, my muscles will be so sore, I'll be stuck in bed like an invalid all day. But if I obtain the toned obliques and inner-serenity that my cool, tattooed, hippie instructor promised, I might be back, drenched in sweat and regretting my attraction to yoga.
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