I had to work a Vendor Fair one night last week at a gym that I occasionally am called in to teach for. In the interest of keeping my job there, I'll keep the name to myself, suffice to say that it rhymes with the possessive version of cold. Or mold.
The gym is located in the Natomas area and if you are from Sacramento, I don't need to tell you that this area has definitely lots its luster in the last couple of years. It's quite possible that I am the oldest instructor at the gym and also possible that I am part of a very, very small group that has not had any augmentation. Nor do I wear the too tight, very colorful "hot pants" that seem to grace the bottom half of every single female there. Oh no, I am the older "hippy" girl, wearing a loose tank top, baggy pants and sporting a little braid across my forehead.
I am digressing. Again.
So anyway, this gym has more silicone than muscles, if you know what I mean and a Vendor Fair is just an excuse to bring the Hooters girls in, in full Hooters garb, and serve up some wings while everyone admires the scantily dressed gym members.
The gym management was kind enough to set me up with a table, some brochures and a Reformer, all of which were placed away from the Hooters action and directly in the center of the weight room floor. Lucky me.
But I didn't realize how screwed I was, in terms of where I would be "vending" Pilates services, until the gym manager came up to me and said, "We'd like you to get on the Reformer and actually demo the machine."
Now anyone familiar with the Pilates method of exercise on the Reformer knows that being on the machine is kinda like going to the OB GYN, sometimes worse. Your feet go in straps, your legs move around in circles and straddles, the pelvis goes up and down in a bridging movement...I think you get the point. There's a reason that the trainers call our version of exercise "Naughty Pilates."
Back to my story.
I reluctantly agree to demo something on the machine, while thinking, "I should have asked for double time for this gig, particularly since I'm taking orders from someone who, muscles aside, is half my age and certainly has half a brain."
I place my toes on the back of the Reformer and execute a G-rated lunge. Two male trainers are instantly at my side. "Wow, you are LIMBER!" the first says. Trainer 2 adds: "When are you gonna put your foot behind your head? We're all waiting for that." And he gestures toward an army of trainers, lurking near by.
To which I reply, "The Hooters girls are taking over the machine in an hour. You want limber? Those gals have got it goin' on! In the meantime, I hear they've stripped down to bikinis and are considering a wet t-shirt contest."
The trainers flee and I plop down on a chair and finish my shift, slightly nostalgic for the days of sitting in a board room with fully dressed and highly educated individuals.