Pilates, Crushes, etc.

There was a time in which I was in ’like’, semi-deep, meaningful love-in-training, but now, I’m shopping around. He left the gym for greener pastures in Chelsea and I was left brokenhearted, with tight shoulders.

So I did what any girl in my situation would do. I looked around for an answer, or simply a substitute, secretly aspiring to come upon someone even better than the first. That would have just been frosting, but I love frosting. And what happened is that I ended up at the same old starting point. The act that had abandoned me in the first place. It became time to get back on the horse.

The Pilates horse.

I’m telling you, this and this alone is the answer to all the world’s problems. There is nothing better for a single yearning for a connection. Actually, as I’ll elaborate, it could be a little too good. It might be my new Nia(though our class is planning a Costa Rican trip where apparently we will only eat fruit, swing in hammocks and work out in our bathing suits in the surf so Nia, my first love, will always come out ahead).

Back to Pilates, my surrogate for a meaningful relationship or boyfriend. Wait, it’s better than both of those. There are no arguments, no jealousy, no picking up strewn socks. It’s the best relationship for the self-indulgent. It’s pretty much all about what an exquisite creature you are. Whatever’s left is filled with compliments on how your body moves and finally, how in love the universe is with that movement.

It moves you lean, limber, open. It defines free-wheeling. Bare feet, pumping bass, low lighting. Everyone on their backs, lithe instructors of both sexes suddenly upon you to align and touch, move your hips apart or spread their fingers across the small of your back. It sounds kind of shady because it kind of is. It’s one hour, in and out. No one knows each other’s last names. And that’s how they like to keep it.

My new Pilates class is filled with girls in shorts and tank tops arching to Outkast, and one attractive instructor who, as I was in child’s pose, came behind me, and gave me a backrub. A long one. In the middle of class. At the base of my spine and then, a little lower.

Then when a firm hand crept up my neck, a whisper in my ear, “Is this okay?” And I think my voice cracked when I said, “Uh. Sure?”

Did I mention my new instructor is an adorable girl who’s probably about a year older than me?

Before you ask if I could possibly have more screwed up interactions with women I don't know, let me lay this last factoid on you. The paramount reason it felt so wrong was because just the day before, my Amazonian yoga teacher pressed my legs to the air in one swift motion, stared straight into my eyes and said, “You’re gonna be really good someday. I can just tell.”

I’m just not a person who feels comfortable cheating. On her bizarre girl-crushes, that is.