Reformer… am I reformed?

eformer Reformed or not?

A month after our move from LA to Detroit, I received a “welcome to the neighborhood” packet with assorted gift certificates: a free pizza with one topping, $10 dollars to a seriously cool pharmacy that sells wine, beer and European treats that I normally hoard in my suitcase on my trips back from Paris. The package also had a $10 dollar certificate to a pet store with the highest end treats for your furry Bloomfield Hills pets–the $10 didn’t go far. But the most interesting voucher was a 6- free visits to a Pilates studio with a one-on-one private equipment class with the title, “Reform Your Body.” Hmm? This could be interesting, I thought.

It was Tuesday morning, I just ended my job in Fashion due to our recent move and realized I had nothing to do, all the boxes were unpacked and I needed to figure something out. Feeling stressed and overwhelmed by having to reinvent myself yet again! Every move we make isn’t easy for me. Each time I have to come up with a new job–from NYC, to Detroit, to Tokyo, to Milan, to LA and back to Detroit, again-that’s a lot of jobs. Originally, I was a copywriter in Advertising, but like I said, with all the moves abroad, my career changed quite a bit.

Sitting at my desk in our unfamiliar house, I scrolled through job postings. This was depressing as most of the jobs I qualified for were back in NYC and LA, not Detroit! I decided to take a break and try out this Pilates thing­ –it wasn’t totally new to me as I had a few 10-minute at home Pilates DVDs, But I’d never taken an actual class in public. Maybe exercise would clear my head a bit, I hadn’t done any since our move unless you count lifting boxes, unpacking them along with a few walks back-and-forth, dragging the empty boxes to the side of the road for garbage pick up, as exercise. In California I exercised a lot. I’d hike for hours along the high cliffs of Palos Verdes with the pelicans flying above and dolphins swimming below. The hikes were spectacular and I knew that upon moving here, as part of my “wife tax” for making us leave of sunny California, I bought a treadmill to deal with the brutal Michigan winters when hiking outside wouldn’t be an option.

Arriving at this small Pilates studio for my private lesson I was excited. After filling out a bunch of forms letting the studio know if I get injured I won’t sue or that they should call my husband if I’m unconcious. A mid-40’s, extremely fit woman with deep, dark eyes leads me to a small, private room with a few machines. She tells me to get on this contraption called the Reformer. The long rectangle box-type machine with straps, color-coded springs, a headrest and a foot bar was totally unfamiliar to me. How do I get on? Hesitantly, I put my hands in the straps and feet on the footrest. The instructor gets on the reformer next to me to demonstrate how it moves, it elegantly glides back and forth for her, but when I try, the sounds of springs pulling back and forth, ending with a big bang each time, I slam into the front end. She demo’s it again…. pull, glide, pull, glide. I try again,…. pull, slam, pull, slam. This machine takes a lot of coordination, like walking and chewing gum at the same time. Visions of giving birth in Japan comes to mind. Nine-years-ago, I was in a birthing room, on a normal looking doctors table, ready to meet my son. All of a sudden when it was time to push, the nurses rushed in and changed my whole table into a type of jungle gym almost like this reformer. “Cochi, cochi, cochi,” the nurses shouted. I had no idea what they were asking me to do, I’d only taken a few Japanese lessons and had been in Japan less than a year. “Cochi, cochi, cochi!” along with some hand gestures, I realized my good charades skills actually helped. The nurses wanted me to push rather than pull on the bar above my head. I guess mentally the pain of not being aloud to have an epidural made me want to pull myself out this painful moment. Like my birthing jungle gym, the reformer too could transform itself into different positions, I was finally getting it and gliding along more elegantly, or less clumsily! After a painful and shaky 1 hour one-on-one, well, not as painful as childbirth, my instructor congratulates me for a job well done. I thank her and sign up for group Barre intensity class.

A few days later I return to the studio for my first barre class. At this point the only “barre” I was familiar with in Detroit was one with high stools and a big array of beer taps lined-up at eye level. Sheepishly I walk in. I notice some have mats already strategically placed in front of mirrors to show off all angles of ones body. I grab a mat, ball and weights, like the rest. I’ve learned from living in foreign countries to observe and try and fit in. I look around and notice these women look as though they should be in a workout video. Perfect tight, little bodies and hair and make-up fit for any wedding day. I didn’t fit in. I was wearing maybe a swoosh of mascara, sporting last years H&M workout tights, a t-shirt from a give away and socks. I wore real socks, not the nonslip they all had. I wasn’t wearing any jewelry unlike the other women with gobs of gold and bobbles dangling from their thin, toned arms and necks, enough to pay for a few mortgage payments. Geez, they must have massive ring finger muscles to carry those trophy rocks! Their moves were as choreographed as their looks.

The ex-ballerina, stick looking instructor shouts on her microphone, “ Come on, lift, one two, three, four… you are here to work, you are here for your bodies… 8,9,10…!” as Michael Jackson’s “Just Beat It” blares from the speaker. I try to concentrate on my moves or more like concentrate on not stopping. “Good form Margo!” “Keep it up, Candace.” She says. I felt a bit out of place not only mentally but physically. Scanning the room for just one normal non-clone looking person, I spot her. She was off to the side trying to follow like me, figuring out the next move. Maybe this little miss simple also had also received a free package. Her plain workout clothes, un-manicured toes and tattooed ring on her ring finger made her stand out like a sore thumb, or were we part of a group too, a simple one? Most sported the infamous Lulu Lemon apparel, actually all the women wore this brand.

55minutes up. We’re done with the hard part and the instructor leads us to stretch. 3 of the trophy wives start packing up and skipping the stretch portion to run off to another oh-so important thing or maybe they are just not bothered by the stretching as it’s not intense enough. Still I fanaticize as to where they were rushing off to…a coffee date, hair appointment, Botox injection session, a facial?

As instructed we raise our arms above our head and breath out a big exhale. Class is over. I wait my turn for the lavender, Eucalyptus infused spray bottle to wipe down my matt. Miss ballerina instructor tells Miss simple she did a great job on her first class! As she walks away, she gives me a little nod, hopefully meaning nice job, too. Miss Newbie turns to me and exclaims, “That was my first class!” … as if I were to be impressed and tell her what a natural she is. I smile and say, “Mine too!”

As I pull my shoes out of the locker, I eaves drop on the chatty ladies. “So girls, when are we doing the diamond hydraulic facial?” “Oh,” says the other, “I did that last week, I’d much prefer the ultra blah di blah blah.” “True, says the other, but my daughter and I have done that one way too much… “ I sneak a glance and think, wow, she has done that way too much.

I like being the observer, it’s easier. As I start to put on my jacket a new group arrives for the next class. A conversation starts, a familiar one. It’s what I refer to as “competitive mother talk.”

“ Hi Leni, how are you, you look great, I’ve not seen you in so long! “ Wow, your hair! I’m in shock, it’s so short!”   Leni responds confidently, “I know, I know, but my hair grows so fast, no need to take vitamins, I just have so much hair, I’m not worried!” Then very cleverly the first jab comes in. Leni asks her “friend”, “So how is Aidan adjusting to 5^th grade?” Her friend responds in a truthful way, which is odd to me. Doesn’t she know how to play the “competitive mother game” Rule # 1 don’t show weakness, Rule #2 it’s not a lie if you believe it and Rule # 3 Everything is always fabulous? She swings and misses with her truthful words…. “Well, he’s ok, not loving school, he’s struggling at the moment making friends and he isn’t really into sports at the moment… “ Leni interrupts almost in glee. “Oh really, that is soooooooo strange, Conrad just loves school. As a matter of fact we were shocked when he woke up on Saturday bummed it wasn’t a school day, he felt better once we said he had two soccer practices and Karate.” Then with the usual fake concern filled with multiple spikes, she adds, “ I can’t imagine what you are going through, I don’t know what I would do if Conrad didn’t like school. Have you thought of cranial therapy? I read about a case of difficult children benefiting. Well best of luck, honey,” as she walks away slinging her Louis Vuitton over her shoulder calling out, “Jan, Jan, why weren’t you at the Schlackman’s dinner party? “ Jack was so disappointed, we have to get the boys together soon, maybe out for drinks or even over for dinner at our place, we have this new private chef who specializes in Paleo.” The chatter continues, I’m zoning out… I realize I’m just sitting and gawking. Time to leave this studio and go back to my somewhat, normal, yet displaced world.

Just as I zip up my skate/biker boot, I hear “OH My God, cute boots, are those Vince?” Wait, what? They are talking to me? I tell them “No, they are Maison des Talons.” They look with a puzzled look as I said it with the proper French accent and it’s a brand they sure don’t know. Their eyes just stare, I mumble, “It’s a Swiss brand, actually a brand I used to work on in my old Fashion days, as of last week, really….” I thank them and leave. I get the parking lot and see my easy to spot car, a 2005 Honda CRV in a sea of Mercedes, Range Rovers, Teslas and an array of other high end rides. On my way home at a stoplight I glance up. There on the corner is a Lulu Lemon shop. I’m tempted to check the store where the clones find their “uniform.” I think, I would love a cute little outfit to wear to my next Barre session. The light turns green and I continue on. Hmmm… maybe I’m getting a little, “reformed!”