Pilates...

I have reached forty. In age. Not yet in IQ, according to some closer friends (I think that's in a few more years!). I have not, as of yet, reached my mid-life crisis. Who knows what that'll mean. Possibly a tattoo, and a motorbike or worse, a tattoo of a motorbike! I dread to think. Though maybe not as much as my wife, I suppose.

However, with the onset of physical pre-middle age I have found that my body is not quite as supple as it has been over the last decade. There is a reason my nickname during my thirties was 'Mr Rubber band'. This elasticity is beginning to fade. To enable me to return to my former glory I have recently signed up for Pilates! (Yes, I know, I didn't believe a Roman Governor invented an entire form of training. - Could not have been all bad then, who knew?

I came across Pilates a while ago. A lady at my previous workplace was a practitioner of the art and recommended it to me. This was a few years ago. It never materialised though for one reasons or another. The gym I was member of never had any classes and any I saw tended to be during the day. So it never happened. This changed last year on our company away day to a Spa (Not to be confused with a team of people wondering around a low cost supermarket, searching for food items that aren't processed or microwaveable), but a proper spa.

One where you get heavy cotton dressing gowns that are the equivalent weight to wearing a suit of armour. Oh, but the LUXURY. I still have the complimentary flip flops. I use them in my local gym in the showers. I note the envious looks. Tough. They are mine. They are also sparklingly white. The Spa is sparklingly white and is a little like being in a science fiction film – one where everything seems normal, until you discover you are in a human organ harvesting factory, blind to the evil until they pulling your liver out.

There is little I have found more disconcerting in my life than being in the presence of my work colleagues dressed only in a white dressing gown and flip flops.

However, at this place in rural Leicestershire (Other Spa's are available) they ran a Pilates session. I signed up. I almost died. The only thing in the room that turned out to be only slightly less supple than me were three walls. The fourth wall beat me as it contained the door, and that moved.

Imagine my surprise then when the local gym advertised a Pilates class. It's not at the ideal time. Later than I would prefer, starting at 20:50. But, needs must, etc...so, I booked in. I didn't hold out much hope of there being many men there.

I was the only man there. I continue to be, the only man attending. It is quite disconcerting. The instructor is lovely. She happens to be an ex-England international gymnast. I can only presume the only real difference between her and me is that she can touch her toes and I can't. Admittedly she can't touch her toes with her nose. Me, with my hands. It is all relative.

Is it harder than I thought? Yes. Do I enjoy it? Yes, most of the time. Are there parts I can't complete? Yes. In all honesty though, it is quite fun and I am noticing slight improvements in mobility, here and there.