Pilates? Isn’t that just stretching?

“Trust me,” she says, “It’s good. Even though it’s just a bunch of alte kakers in the class.” Well at least, I think, I can handle that. Maybe Pilates could supplement my roller skating, add a little relaxation into my schedule.

“OK,” I agree.

But in Los Angeles, the five or so miles distance between us would probably take me a couple of hours to traverse, so I don’t go to her class. I look, instead, in the neighbourhood where I’m staying, and I find a cluster of studios that are walking distance. This is remarkable because I thought nothing could be walking distance because nobody walks here for reasons that are utterly impossible to determine (the weather is perfect!! Why wouldn’t you walk??).

Apparently, there are 3 Pilates studios, a “contourology” clinic, a smoothie bar (for your local $25 smoothies), a brow bar, two dry cleaners, three medical spas, and several hair and nail salons all in one block a mere 18-minute walk from my place. Also a Starbucks, Israeli fast-food restaurant, and a bakery with luscious challah. Who needs a car?

I sign up for Pilates at one of the studios, House of Core (like House of Jacob/Beth Jacob or House of Shalom/Beth Shalom—clearly a place of worship). I walk over (18 minutes!) cheerfully, but as soon as I enter, I have a bad feeling.

Firstly, this is clearly not a stretching class. Unless we’re talking about being stretched on something approaching a rack. Carefully laid out across the room, with straps and handcuffs and blocks and sliding carriages attached to the base with a series of springs, are machines called Reformers.

Secondly, there are no alte kakers. Not a one. Every participant is under 30 years of age (indeed, wedding planning is the only conversation in the room, endless talk of venues, florists, and where your groom can get a custom-made mauve suit). Each woman is under 110 pounds in pure muscle weight. No lines, no wrinkles. The uniform is Alo—all black. Hair is long, straight, and glossy; I’m the only one, I feel sure, that stocks up on Frizz-Ease when it goes on sale.

I climb onto my scary machine and look around, not only at my peers but also myself, doubled and tripled in the mirrors surrounding us. Hard, slim bodies, and me, with overflowing tush, hips, and a belly (but not boobs; my foobs are petite). I listen closely to the directions given by the instructor (who reminds us she’ll be off next week because she’s getting married! OMG!) and push and pull and squat and hold and pulse. My legs shake violently. Sweat collects on my forehead. Why does everyone else look so damn graceful?

A week later, I run into my breast cancer friend. She invites me to her alte kaker class. Screw LA traffic, I tell her I’ll join her.