I heard it would happen.

Others have talked about it, and it’s here.

I’m talking about gravity. Gravity kicking in. Gravity causing things to shift on my body that didn’t have permission to do so in the first place. I’m about a month or so away from turning 37, so I suppose its time, but I’m not thrilled about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not laying in the fetal position over the discovery, but I am dreadfully reminded each time I sit down that the waist just isn’t what it used to be. Greg rolls his eyes, saying I don’t look any different, but I can feel it. Somewhere between parenting two kids and looking under countless sofa cushions for lost car keys, my skin lost its elasticity. It stretched. And not in the right places. I can either cry about it or put down that bowl of raw cookie dough and take action. So Tuesday, I decided to take up pilates.

Wednesday, I quit.

How’s that for upping the ante? I had good intentions. I wasn’t going to an actual class, heck no, why pay money for something and actually be held accountable? Instead, I hit play on a pilates dvd that was collecting dust in my living room and tried my best to contort my body into pretzel-like poses, which by the way couldn’t feel more unnatural. I’m convinced even Gumby couldn’t do this routine.

At one point, the way-too-happy trainer told me to stand, cross one leg over the other and slowly squat to the floor, so I did.

And fell over.

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