I Fold...

My girlfriend Lorie has recently made it her life's work to recruit me into what she calls a "fabulous" Pilates class.  This is the activity that I mistakenly pronounced "Pilots" for a good 6 months after finding it on a prominent  DVD display.  How embarrassing.  From my limited research, it would appear that the people who practice Pilates sit on a mat and attempt to fold themselves into various positions.  The problem with my body is that it resists folding, much like a map or a fitted sheet. The monkeys in my head are quick to remind me that this falls into the category of Exercise, which is unnervingly close to the category of Sports.  As mentioned, I hate Sports.  Actually, I am out to impress no one...I hate Exercise too. 
All 100 pounds of me look back on my years of required Phys Ed classes as a colossal waste of time. I could have been reading... Oh, it wasn't so bad in elementary school, especially when you laced up your brand new runners at the beginning of the year.  Put those puppies on and you felt like you could run for days...or seconds, in my case.  I have the endurance of an asthmatic gnat.
When we got older though, they started making us do the stupid things.  Do you remember that rope hanging from the ceiling of the gym?  Who's the genius who came up with this?  "I think we should dangle class after class of adolescents from this rope, secured to the 30 foot ceiling by a jewelry clasp."  At least that's how I saw it.... JesusGod, you want me to climb that??? 
"Look, it's sooo easy", Sporty Spice would proclaim, as she shimmied effortlessly to the top.  Whatever, Sporty, we can all see your Thursday underwear... Of course my willow sticks for arms could not even get me off the floor and I would require a "boost" from the Phys Ed teacher.  Exactly what I wanted.  "Don't worry, if you fall, you'll land on the 1-inch mat!  Careful not to overshoot!"   Don't even get me started on pole vaulting. 
Who were the adults in charge here?  Danger lurked at every confusing coloured line set into that gym floor. (What the hell were all those markings for anyway?)  I lived in constant fear of getting hit in the face with some sort of ball.  I would barely have the gym door open and a dodgeball would whiz by my head.  Thank God it was the 80s, and my perm and large eyeglasses offered me some measure of cranial protection.
Then there were the oxygen-depriving events known as Track & Field.  In Elementary school, you would certainly recognize me on "Fields Day" as we called it.  Coloured ribbons were distributed at the end of every event. Red ribbons were printed with a very large #1.  I was the one with a large green ribbon and several small green ribbons safety pinned to my windbreaker. As I see it, green signified an attempt.  Green ribbons were printed with something soothing like, "Thank You for Participating!!!"  It may as well have said "Green means you are hopeless and should stick to cheering!!!" or "Girl Guides meet on Wednesdays at 4, try that!!"  I spent a great deal of time buying popsicles and mixed candy at the concession. 
In high school, I fared no better. I attempted shot put only once.  I hefted with all my might and the large metal ball landed directly in front of me, nearly shattering my foot. The Phys Ed teacher opted not to allow me to throw the javelin and discus. It was at this point I was handed a clipboard and declared the Manager of Something or Another.  It would seem there were were no ribbons awarded for keeping excellent statistics, though. 
So, Lorie, after much thought, I am willing to attend the classes.  I will diligently take notes and create a spreadsheet, tracking your folding progress.  Glad we can do this together.  It will be Fabulous!