I’ve taken yoga-pilates classes few months back with an ex-colleague of mine, back in the days when I was trying to keep my weight down before the wedding.
And although it lasted only 3 months, the experience was traumatizing enough to be burned into the back of my skull - creeping back recurrently every time I look at an exercise video.
My instructor was a short skinny lady in her late 40s who wore a shit-load of eye make-up with a palette of colours that can compete with the costume of an 80s Indian rap singer.
She looked relatively harmless initially – the impression only lasted for 5 seconds
Afterwhich, she'll start the class by yelling at the top of her lungs and screaming things like
‘Oh look at at all the bak-wahhsss..!!!! Get rid of the bak-wahhs in your buutt-ockk !! COME ON COME ON ! *insert high-pitched unintelligible word here*' ... whilst slapping the thighs of her unsuspecting students
While the rest of us huffed and puffed like a drugged-out Richard Simmons, she’ll move around like a stealth ninja, circling us like a hungry vulture looking for her next carbo-infested oversized victims who just couldn't raise their hands or legs high enough.
Needless to say, after my last and final lesson, I never came back. Not even to collect my exercise ball which was stashed away in the centre’s storage room.
I chose instead to go for random, safer activities that promotes a healthier heart and even lesser chances of getting a verbally-inflicted psychological-injury.
She caught me by surprise though, a month after that by calling me up for chat and asking how I was.
She knew I was getting married then and was concerned that I wouldn’t be getting enough exercise when I were to get pregnant in future.
Basically, I lied through my teeth when I promised her I will call if I needed to go for a pre-natal Lamaze class.
Lying, because I don’t want my baby to come shooting out of my womb like a bullet train through one lesson with this one hell of a scary sporty spice.
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