I Think I Poisoned The Preggos

I seriously need my head examined. I had my prenatal class today and decided that we’d do arms and mat work, instead of the Reformer. This meant that we needed to work in one of the yoga studios. As the women were arriving, I walked into the studio, to start setting up and a stench that could’ve knocked out both Godzilla and Mothra, smacked me in the face, and took a ride down my lungs. The fact that I didn’t immediately switch gears and move us into the Reformer studio, is why I need my head examined. What, in the name of all things pure and simple, was I doing?!

My instincts and relative intelligence told me to abort the hand weight workout in the noxious yoga studio, for the sweet smelling Pilates room. However, this ‘other’ self, that I’m ashamed to even admit that I own, took over and I conducted the class in the toxic room.

In all fairness, I did ask the women if they would rather move to the other studio. They're the pregnant ones. Shouldn't they know what is unhealthy for their unborn offspring? No one said anything. I know this isn’t an excuse for my obvious stupidity, but I just thought I’d offer up all of the facts before you judge me. And you will judge me. I'm judging myself right now.

And then, in the middle of a biceps curl or a lat raise, I almost said the following, “If anything happens to your babies, please don’t hold me liable.” WHAT? Let me say that again, WHAT? What I did say was, “Please don’t hold me liable.” That's so much better.

There is something seriously wrong with me. I’ve said it before, I should not be put in charge. It’s too much pressure for me. I need to work with women who are in really good shape, not with child, and who can do somersaults, and stand on their heads. 

After class, I tried to get out as fast as I could (I’ve got my own lungs to protect). I heard one of the women say to another that she felt light headed. Oh, dear Allah, really. They said that the fumes made it hard for them to breathe. The f'd up thing about this conversation was that I didn't hear any animosity towards me (which I so deserved) in their words or tone of voice.

Why didn’t they say anything? I can’t possibly look like I possess any ounce of authority.

I pretended that I didn’t hear what they were saying and ducked out. I sprinted to my car, hoping that they’ll forget all about it by next week's class. Or better yet, they all deliver their babies and can’t come back for two months.

A Dolphin in Dubai

I’d like to think that my teaching skills improve with each and every, “Pull your navel to your spine”, that I utter. I’d also like to think that I can still become a professional dancer. One of my private client's is pregnant and I had her do a modified upper abdominal curl. I swear on my dead dog Little Ricky, that I saw her baby rise to the service and pop her belly out. I almost had an aneurism. I don't think that should've happened. I kept my cool and quickly moved on to another exercise. Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing after all.

And then I yelled at a client. She was bitching (and not the first one to do so) about how she couldn't feel anything when we were doing an exercise on the Reformer. She wanted to use more springs to make it heavier. I said, (and I may have raised my voice a wee) "You don't feel anything because you're not doing it right." I realized that this wasn't Pilates Boot Camp or a military drill, and immediately started back pedaling. I think I sweet talked my way out of it but I realized that I might have gone too far. My reaction truly came from my passion. Okay, maybe it also came from being a 'control enthusiast' but my heart was in the right place.

I have to blame the following faux pas on my education, or there lack of. I told my Serbian neighbor, and co-worker, that she was wrong when she said that Washington D.C. was the capital of the United States. I went on further to say that, "The United States doesn't have a capital.” I asked her if she learned that in Serbia. I said that I wasn't sure if D.C. was a state. This was not, I repeat, not, one of my finest moments, and if my parents are reading this, they must be very proud. I said that I was confused and not to hold me to any of it, but inside I was almost certain that I had never heard of the United States having a capital.

I Googled as soon as I got home and sure enough, the Serbs were correct. I have yet to apologize for my gross and embarrassing error and I hope to 'Allah' that they haven't already gone and spread the word in Belgrade. It is Belgrade, isn't it?

I went to Dolphin Bay at Atlantis in Palm Jumeirah this morning. It's a man made island in the shape of a Palm Tree. WHAT?!! I wouldn't normally do something like this but, please, a man made island in the shape of a palm tree. You have to. I also knew the water would be cool (they have to keep the dolphins breathing) and so what the hell.

It turned out to be really fun. The weather wasn't too bad and I was able to walk around without taking a humid sweat shower. I latched onto an Indian couple from England, who were on their honeymoon. C'mon, who doesn't want a little Dani action on their honeymoon.

They were very sweet and true to being newlyweds, when it came to buying the stupidly expensive pictures (that they try to sell you when you’re still feeling a high from swimming with dolphins), the husband could only think of their budget. He made a comment about their wedding photographer being cheaper than the photos. She wanted the full tilt boogie on a CD. Ah, marriage. It was such a racket. I bought three.

We all had a chance to hug our dolphin, whose name was Danita (it was meant to be), for a photo op. My hair was blowing in the wind so I shouted (as only a New Yorker can) at the photographer standing on the beach, "Wait, my hair.”  I fixed it, and then, “Okay. Now." Please, this could be my next headshot. I'm always thinking.

When I got home, I stopped off at a local restaurant for lunch. It's getting a bit tedious to constantly hear, "Will that be ONE?" Or "Are you ALONE?" every time I go out. The best was the woman who checked me in at Dolphin Bay. When I walked up to her podium to give her my name, she immediately said, "Oh, I think your husband just went inside." When I looked at her like she had three tits, she said, "Oh, I'm sorry... I thought he was... Never mind... Just one then?"

I Am Cool, And So Is My Mini

Sometimes, I just don’t know when to stop. Okay, it’s a little more often than sometimes., and I have to stop trying to be witty at every turn, even when I’m teaching a room full of teenagers. But last night in dance class was not such a time.

The girls came in dragging their feet, complaining of stomach aches, back aches and general malaise. Whatever! I was there to teach, not to listen to the whining of, “Look at me, I’m a ballet dancer, and walk like a duck” teens. They didn’t want to do anything. I was in a quandary. Do I stand up tall, be a teacher and demand rolling like a ball, and single leg knee stretch? Or do I hang back (I’m getting paid regardless) and listen to their very important problems?

We compromised. I put them through their Pilates paces but when I saw the incessant yawning and eyes closing, I decided to stop. And then because I apparently don’t know the difference between a 17 year old and a 40 year old, I asked Carrie what she thought of the Mini Cooper car (I’m getting one tomorrow) She curled her lip and said, “Why, do you have one?” Here’s where I like to practice being coy. “No.” She said, “Oh, I think they’re stupid.” Can a car be stupid? And then a little part of me died because as much as I hate to admit it, I wanted her to be terribly impressed when I told her that I was getting one.

I gave them another abdominal exercise not only to punish Carrie, but to get my head around the fact that she thought the Mini was stupid. Stupid? You’re stupid. The Mini’s are the cutest cars around. There’s a friggin’ Mini culture out there. Mini drivers honk at each another when they pass on the road. Like motorcycle drivers do.

After a few more swan dives I dropped the bomb. “I’m getting the Mini. It’s Chili red, with a white roof and white side mirrors and two white racing stripes on the hood. It’s sassy.” I was smiling and getting all up in Carrie’s face, like a six year old who just got a Malibu Barbie Beach House, AND the Corvette.

Carrie looked at me, “Sassy?” Great, now I have to explain what sassy means. She apologetically said, “I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t impressed. I found my adult nuts and replied (now here’s where I practiced no self control, bordered on inappropriate and was just downright mean) “Carrie, as much as I adore you, you’re not liking the car I’m getting doesn’t really have any impact on my decision making.” Now, if you know me, you’d hear this as non threatening sarcasm, accompanied by a whacky facial expression and think it no big deal. On the other hand, did I mention that these girls are teenagers.

As soon as it came out of my mouth, I felt bad. It was uncalled for but I wasn’t going to give a 2% body fat dancer the satisfaction of thinking that her stupid remark would have any affect on me or my car. For those keeping score at home, yes, I was engaging in a power struggle with a seventeen year old.

And then, just as I was punishing them with Pilates push-ups, Carried blurted, “I just thought you were cooler than that.” I will now be spending the rest of the season, proving to Carrie, that I am cool. I am. I am.

The article that appeared in Pilates Style Magazine

The Case Of The Missing Water Filter

I haven't taught Pilates in a couple of days and I feel like I've forgotten everything that I've ever learned. Quite frankly, I feel like a fraud. I've got a private session and a Mat class later this afternoon and I'm so unmotivated. I should be coming up with kick ass routines, or review my anatomy, so that when a client tells me about their torn meniscus, I can offer up exercises that would be good for such an injury, and NOT just tilt my head with a, "Aw, that must hurt." No, I choose to obsess (read:blog) about a missing water filter.

It goes without saying that I am in charge of changing the filter in the Brita water pitcher every two months. I'm very diligent about this because I am anal about germs, following rules, instructions and manuals. I would make a really good HR person... says my friend Muffy.

The Britta guide said to change the filter every two months. They even include a little calendar that adheres on the pitcher as a reminder. I also put it on the calendar that hangs on the refrigerator... just as a safety precaution.

Well, it was time for a filter change the other day and lo and behold, no filter, just an empty box. I was livid, I tell ya, livid! First of all, I would never put an empty box back in the basket of cleaning supplies that lives under the sink. And second, where the hell was the filter?! I bought a package of three and I know there was at least one left, or else it would've made it onto the "we need the following" list. Anal... your table is ready.

It couldn't have been my boyfriend. He doesn't even know that we have water filters, let alone, take one out, swap it out with the old one and put the empty box back under the sink. Although he has been known to put the orange juice carton back in the refrigerator with a spit of juice left. Then again so have I.

There was only one other person that could've taken it. The CLEANING LADY. But why? And wouldn't she think that I would notice, especially since it was the last one? If she had thrown the box out, then maybe, just maybe, I might've thought that I forgot to put it on the "we need the following" list.

In any case, I decided not to confront her because I didn't have any forensic evidence. But she better watch her back because I'm onto her. She doesn't exactly have a clean record. For one thing, when she cleans, she puts things 'away'... in drawers, cabinets and closets. The first time she cleaned, I couldn't find anything. It's terribly annoying and she should NOT be opening my drawers... nightstand or kitchen.

So, when she came to clean yesterday, I laid it on the line. It might've come out a bit harsh because I was thinking about my missing water filter. I told her that on no uncertain terms should she put anything away. Lift, clean, and put back down.

Now It's About Feet

The other day, while Pilates training, I thought I was going to seriously throw up. Each foot that walked into the studio was more disgusting than the last. One client draped her grimy hoofs on the foot bar of the reformer, as tiny pieces of skin literally dropped onto the bar. It was like foot dandruff or she was molting like an f’in reptile.

Here I am again talking about what grosses me out about Pilates. Now I think it’s becoming a work hazard. In the last couple of weeks I have had my share of, bunions (nothing says old Jew like a bunion) claw toes, hammer toes, ingrown toenails, toenail fungus, corns, warts, calluses, cracked skin, and chipped toenail polish. At what point am I allowed to refuse service? Food establishments have their, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” policy. Maybe I should have business cards saying, “Foot Fungus? Funky toes? Flaking Heels? FORGET IT!” I refuse to believe that I’m the only one feeling this way. I can’t be that alone in the world.

I’m truly at a loss. Am I missing something? Did I not read the small print in the job description? Perhaps I glossed over the part where it said that unwashed and unkempt feet were a part of the job. So now I have to suck it up? Terrif. This Pilates culture makes me feel like Lisa Ling uncovering a lost city on National Geographic Explorer. Who knew?

If I wanted to be this close to feet and their disorders, I would’ve become a podiatrist. Don’t get me wrong, I love well manicured feet with perfectly aligned phalanges. Maybe I have this aversion to horrid feet because I grew up around aesthetically pleasing ones. Not only are my feet near perfect specimens, if I do say so myself, but my father has some of the nicest tootsies this side of the Mississippi. I naively assumed that most people had feet like ours. Oh, how wrong I was.

The last time this foot obsession reared it’s ugly heel, was a few years ago when I moved to Prague to teach English as a foreign language (because that’s what a 38 year old woman does, after almost 20 years in the entertainment business). I was truly in the midst of a different culture, and that culture too had bad feet. I remember reading an article in the Prague Post that said that the Czech Republic was trying to change their image. I thought this was a smart idea since many of the people I met acted as if no one told them that the curtain had come down, and it was okay to smile. The article went on to say that the Czech Republic wanted to be more “modern, developed and sophisticated.” They wanted to change the image that the world had of them as people with “weather beaten faces.” And if I may, I'd like to add weathered beaten feet to that image.

I had never seen uglier, dirtier, and more mangled feet, as I had in Praha. Why? Why so ugly, dirty and mangled? I could understand if it was bad genes. Maybe it was the decades of toiling in the fields and the mines. That would only explain part of the picture. What's with the dirt? Even if I didn't shower for two or seven days, I don’t think that my toes would look like I just trampled through a mud pile, laced with petrol. I saw more Band-aids on ankles in Prague than runners post marathon.

Then one day, out of nowhere, I saw the most exquisite manicured feet of a woman on the Metro. Her toenails were filed down to equal lengths, not like a jagged pocket knife. The nail polish was a fresh and sassy ballet slipper hue, and there wasn’t a dry cuticle in sight. I knelt down and kissed every polished toe. At that moment my faith in humanity was restored. Now I have to hope for same in the Pilates studio.

To Shave Or Not To Shave

I know I talked about unshaven legs and armpits in a past entry (see: On the road again... geographically & professionally) but apparently I’m not finished.

I was shooting the shit with a fellow instructor at the Pilates studio today. “I just think the women should shave their legs before coming to see me. It’s irresponsible. I have to touch them. Would it be so horrible if at the very least they wore long work out pants?”

Her eyes bugged out. “Are you serious?” She said this with great disbelief. I thought she was kidding, so I reiterated.

“Yeah, I’m serious. Are you serious? I’ve got to feel that shit.” I think she was genuinely appalled at my seemingly intolerant attitude.

“I don’t think it’s such a big deal.” At which point I glanced down at her feet, only to see several hairs, the length of yard sticks, coming out of each of her big toes. Of course she didn’t think it was a big deal. I curled my lip.

“All I’m saying is, I think it’s socially unacceptable and in bad form.” I didn’t really feel this strongly and militant about it, but I had her hooked and wanted to see how far I could go.

She looked at me like I wanted kids who wore glasses to be rounded up and hauled off to some remote facility in Jersey. “I’m just a little shocked.”

I was confused. “You’re shocked that I’d be anti leg dreadlocks and armpit nests? Why? Because I believe in saving the planet, a woman’s right to choose and gay marriage, so you think I'd believe in letting it all hang out? You can't lump me in with the, my body hair is au natural and therefore beautiful, line of thinking people. I am not that girl. C’mon. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to think about your trainer and ask yourself whether they want to get their hands all tangled up in that mess.” And with that my fellow trainer smiled and walked away. Ah, agreeing to disagree.

I’m all for letting your freak flag fly but there’s a time and a place. And if I’m busting my ass helping you to obtain your optimum lengthened and most ideal posture (which I’m happy to do) then please, clean it up, because it’s not the time nor the place.

What kind of society would be if we thought it was acceptable for women to go to their gynecologists for their pap smears without showering beforehand just because it went against their daily hygienic beliefs and they wanted to save water? I’m not a huge fan of the shower. I’ve gone a day (or seven) without bathing, but I would never forego washing and shaving before a pap, especially since my doctor’s going to be up close and personal with my hoo hoo. Have some compassion. It’s the same thing with Pilates. I want my clients to think of me as their Pilatecologist.

I understand the whole, free to be you and me feminist angle. Wait, no, I take that back. I don’t understand it, nor have I ever really thought about it. I only recently read about the Second wave feminists and I still don’t understand what the big hullabaloo is about. Do what moves you, speaks to you and resonates with you, but I implore you to leave the leg and armpit vines at home. Yes, I’ve heard that for some it’s a cultural and social mores issue. Great, social more all you want, at home, not in the Pilates studio.

I get it. Shaving is a personal preference, not unlike foregoing red meat, or choosing a standard versus an automatic vehicle. However, when it affects another person, i.e. me, get that friggin razor out and start mowing. I never thought of shaving as a social or man conceived idea either.

And I know that certain Mediterranean cultures don’t consider it essential for a woman to shave her legs. My parents were hippies in the 60’s. I know that the whole unshaved legs became a natural thing to do during the “hippy” movement. Okay, fine, but if you’re going to train with me, and you’re unshaven, you better have been playing in the mud at Woodstock or recently moved here from Greece.

Fuck it. I’m liberated and I shave. What does that mean? Jesus Christ, must everything we do or don’t do, be analyzed, and given some deeper meaning, label, or attributed to some flaw in ourselves or society? Hairiness is unrestrained animal sexuality. Shaving keeps women in a state of innocence. Shaving denies a woman’s visceral self. Huh? Long hair and beards are for dirty hippies. Dirty foreigner v. Clean American. Someone has a lot of time on their hands, thinking about all of this. And now I’m beginning to think her name is Dani.

I just reread the above. “Wow, why the rage?” For one, because I do think that people need to have regard for others. My other truth goes deeper. Not too deep, perhaps just beneath the surface. When I look at my current situation and what I’m doing now; training to be a Pilates instructor after 20 years in the entertainment business (hanging with Jennifer Love Hewitt and Courtney Love-and others named Love) touching hirsute women, I wonder, with a mix of sadness and disappointment, “How the hell did I get here?”

When I was kicking it with studio executives and performing stand up comedy at the World Famous Improv, I never thought I’d move back to New York and become a Pilates instructor. The questions of how and why force me to retrace my steps (and missteps) and mull over every decision I made, every opportunity I lost, and every fear I let cripple me. I think I’m still mourning a life that would never be (that of a 19 year-old rock star/playing Streisand during the Main Event years in the movie of her life/Vegas Showgirl) and perhaps I still have more work to do accepting what is. I’m no genius but maybe this has something to do with my less than tolerant attitude.

I apologize hirsute women, but I’m coming from Hollywood; pioneers in anal bleaching and vaginal rejuvenation. You’ll have to be patient with me. A couple of hours after my confrontation with my fellow instructor, I looked over at her client laying on the mat, and saw the woman’s armpit. Oh, dear lord, I wish I hadn’t. That woman could’ve been a man. This acceptance thing may take a while.

On the road again... geographically & professionally

Thursday, February 26, 2009

I was a white girl in a white jacket on the E train to Queens. I was going to catch the Air Train to JFK. Just once I’d like to get on the subway and not see a hot steamy pile of throw up on the floor, and have to shuffle off to Buffalo to avoid stepping in it. Now I’m on the plane headed to Oakland, California to visit my friend. I’m flying JetBlue and I’m about to start my fourth hour of Law & Order: SVU. Life is good.

A few weeks ago I started teaching Pilates... It’s crazy because I don’t know what I’m doing. I started training in October, and I hear myself explaining and instructing but I have no idea if I’m making it up or not. Why do people assume that I know more than I do? I don’t. Trust me. I’m teaching both at a studio in Brooklyn as well as a gym on the upper east side.

I gave one client a private session in her upper west side apartment last week because she said she had her own reformer (Pilates piece of equipment). The reformer was from 1994, and she bought it off of the TV. It looked like a Medieval torture machine; metal against metal, frayed and knotted ropes and a foot bar that was a steel pipe. Oh, goody. When she pulled it out, the look on my face said it all. It was a piece of shit and I didn’t want to work on it.

When she asked me what I thought. I said that her reformer was like the Bronx and the ones that I work on in the studio are like Aruba. What? It just came out. I didn’t even know this woman and here I am talking to her like she was my best friend. She said, “Well, the Bronx isn’t so bad.” I choked on the foot that was lodged in my throat. “Oh, no, yeah, right. I know. My family is from the Bronx.” What a great first impression. I see a bright future ahead.

And the insults continue.

I called another client a load, indirectly of course, while she was laying down on the reformer. I was explaining the springs on the machine, in relation to their resistance, and said, “This is a load.” I was referring to the machine not her. Of course she HAD to be a wee overweight. As it was coming out of my mouth I knew I was going to have to tap dance my way out of it. But the more I talked, the more I sounded like an idiot. I eventually dropped it.

During the session, I said something (one sentence max) in a British accent, just for fun. Sometimes I forget where I am or what I’m doing and act too familiar too soon. We chatted after the session and she said, “You know what it’s like to be creative, being an actress and all.” Huh? How the hell did she know? For a split second I felt like a celebrity. I was sure, or rather hoped, that she’d seen my short film online or my 30 seconds of air time on the Sci-Fi pilot, UFO Hunters. “How did you know that I was a ‘performer’. I still can’t own the title Actor. She said,”Because you did a British accent.” Not for nothing but can’t everyone do a British accent? Whatev.

Another client was a sweet 71 year old woman. I am in no position to work on an overweight, (larger than the load lady) 71 year old. Who the hell do I think I am. I was scared. I stood by the reformer and held my breath as I watched her crawl onto the machine. I didn’t know if she would fit. I kept thinking, what am I going to say if she doesn’t fit and her thighs and waist are hanging off of the sides of the machine? This wasn’t covered in my classes. But she did fit and every time I gave her words of encouragement, she’d say, “God bless you.” Meanwhile, anytime I did something like drop a strap or miscalculate the amount of springs to use, I was all, “Oh, dear lord”, or “Oh, my God.” It’s not quite taking the lord’s name in vain, like if I’d said, “Jesus fucking Christ”, which I sadly enough I often do, but I still felt like I was dissing her religious beliefs.

I knew it was bound to happen but no one can really prepare you for it. And it’s not something that’s covered in class either. One of my client’s had some kind of hoo-hoo odor going on. The thing is, Pilates includes a lot of laying down, and for some movements, legs are spread eagle. It was a first, and I’m hoping it’ll be the last. Clients are also either barefoot, or wearing socks. I’m seeing some of the gnarliest feet this side of the Mississippi. And ladies, please, if you wear work out pants that show your legs, have some compassion and shave. Save the nature girl routine or the European shit for someone else. I saw a woman in one of the group classes at the studio and I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. She had the longest, darkest and fullest armpit hair I had ever seen... and that includes the chimps in the zoo. And while we’re on the subject. I’d prefer it if women spot check before they come see me and pluck that one stray black chin hair... or put it in a scrunchy. I don’t need to be training Foo Man Chu. How can you not see that?

Not only do I have a fear of hurting someone but what happens if I train a male client and they get hard? I’m not tooting my own horn, it’s just that I touch when I work with a client, and, well, what do I do? Do I ignore the hard on? Do I look at the hard on and chuckle knowingly? Or do I run screaming from the room?

Switching gears... good time for a bathroom break.

It’s almost been a year since I’ve cut my hair. I want to see how long it gets but right now the ends feel like the Scarecrow’s ass. I sit at my desk and cut the split ends when I’m supposed to be writing, or studying and space out. I’m thinking that if I keep it up, I’ll eventually give myself a haircut.

I saw a woman in the subway the other day that was dressed to the nine’s. It was an odd visual. If you can afford a Louis Vuitton bag, a Burberry coat and scarf, Chanel ballet flats, bling bling on your fingers and in your ears, and you’re pregnant, why in the name of all things good and holy, are you taking the subway? I have to, but you. I find it hard to believe that you take the subway because you can’t get enough of the march of the city rats and the sweet aroma of eau de ass.

I went to a party at a restaurant Saturday night and met a couple of women writers. One of the women is a sometime dancer/performer and freelance journalist. How come she gets to have both? Hate her. She’s also a published author. Hate her even more. She wrote a book about relationships. I dislike those advice books. Most of the time the women who write them are either in dysfunctional relationships or not in any relationship at all, and I’m supposed to take their advice? The fact is, nobody knows anything about relationships, the opposite sex or what movies will be a hit at the box office. I told one of the women writers that I was working on a nonfiction humor memoir and she asked me what the title was.

“Right now it’s called, An American Broad, Abroad.” She said she liked it, shaking her bobble head approvingly. Another party guest joined us and the topic of book titles came up and bobble head took it upon herself to blurt out my title as, “A Broad Abroad.”

To which I replied, “No, that’s not it. It’s An American Broad Abroad.”

She continued, “Oh, but A Broad Abroad is so much snappier and catchier.”

I sneered at her.

“Okay, whatever. That one works too.”

Who the fuck asked you. Then I made the mistake of asking her if she’d ever been in a book club. I’m always interested to hear how other writer’s work. She literally turned her nose up and rolled her eyes.

“Wow, you didn’t have to turn your nose up.”

“Really, I didn’t think I turned my nose up.”

“Well, when you’re head tilts back and I can see your brain through your nostrils, I’m kind of thinking that your nose is turned up.”

The conversation, if you can call it that, ended with an annoying giggle. Hers, not mine.

Six straight hours of SVU. Not a record but respectable.