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Fire leaves 3 dogs, 1 cat dead

First Posted: 1/29/2014 It&#8217;s a new year.
The year of Pilates.
Not pie and lattes.
Pilates. It even sounds nasty, like tuberculosis or impetigo or Guantanamo or exercise. I joined a friend who totally made me feel like I really, really needed an exercise intervention. Apparently reading a book on a hammock is no longer considered adequate exercise. Whatever.
Classes take place in the church basement, I assume for the very reason that when I scream: &#8220;Mother of God, HELP ME!&#8221; it&#8217;s very convenient to get my pleas to reach the ears of Someone Important. It&#8217;s also very well-suited for prayers on the run, or the mat, as it were. Each time the instructor directs me to do anything with my &#8220;pelvic floor,&#8221; I pray. Each time she chirps, &#8220;Time for 100s,&#8221; I pray. Each time she demands, &#8220;Knit those ribs!&#8221; I scratch my head in confusion, throw up, then pray.
Our instructor, a darling, dainty dynamo named Darlene is hard to hate. She&#8217;s adorable and elfin and as pleasant as I imagine Hansel and Gretel&#8217;s stepmother to have been before she led them into the forest. I adore her, even while she is imploring me to &#8220;scoop those abdominals,&#8221; causing me to sob into my new yoga mat. Which smells like sweat and Preparation H.
I don&#8217;t know why.
Yes, I do.
At the start of class, she cheerfully advises us to get into the &#8220;table-top position.&#8221;
Whaaaa?
Judging by the positions assumed by my Pilates-mates, it appears the table she is referring to is that of my gynecologist. Same table, same position, same humiliation.
I then must flip onto my belly like a catfish on a hook and I&#8217;m stuck, prone like Sunset Malibu Barbie on the roof of her Barbie Camper, where she enjoyed sunbathing in the 1970s. I stay like that for an eternity. Or until the bathroom calls.
But I think it may be working. If it hurts to floss my teeth, it must be working, right? Also, it hurts to squat and chew. Not simultaneously.
It hurts to file my nails. It hurts to talk, not that it stops me. My cheeks hurt, both facial and posterior. It hurts so much to heave my battered body up and out of my Serta Perfect Sleeper every day that I wonder if I can hire a team of Oompa Loompas to come over with a hand truck and WD-40 to get the job done.
I&#8217;ve had three children, three kidney stones and my gallbladder, appendix and boobs removed. Guess what? Pilates hurts more. But on the bright side? My fancy pants buttoned this morning! And, I&#8217;m standing up straighter so I&#8217;ve almost reached the 5-foot mark! And after class, I don&#8217;t run home and eat a pallet of Tater Tots anymore! I&#8217;d give a thumbs up here, but it hurts.
But, mother of God, if you&#8217;re up there while I&#8217;m knitting my ribs on this smelly yoga mat in the church basement, please come down and give me a hand. Otherwise, this broken-down Malibu Barbie may just have to twist, shout, tinkle and simply expire, all on a broken gynecologist&#8217;s table.

An exercise in spiritual, physical agony