Since I'm awake, with time on my hands, I figured I'd share a little something about Pilates and me. It's been a few weeks since I've had my heiny kicked by Torey, so we figured we'd get into the swing of things again. To use a term she uses often, after our session today, I was cooked, though I happen to think I was in the oven a little too long.
On my way to a doctor's appointment I happened to take a glance in the rear view mirror. I looked again because something looked strange, though I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked again, and I realized that my forehead looked different, as if there were hundreds of tiny little spots over it. Then it dawned on me--the only other times I've looked like that was when I had a violent puking session. Those little spots all over my forehead and cheeks were tiny little burst blood vessels.
I was giving it my all today, baby! And Torey kicked my arse. Which is what she's supposed to do.
Pilates is hardcore. I don't think many people at the Y leave with burst blood vessels. Pilates ain't for weanies, that's all I'm saying.