Thursday, March 10, 2005


Four cows, lowing to the sounds of Enya. That's what pre-natal pilates was like tonight. On the way I was rollin' in my 5.0, getting crunk with Big Boi and Andre 3000. I bounce into the pilates room, grab my please-ignore-the-suspicious-odors pilates mat and settle into the only position in the room that doesn't force me to look at 7 angles of my large self in the none-too-kind pilates mirrors. Next to the BO lady.
When I was a freshman in college, at that point newly brainwashed into calling myself a freshperson, I admit to having bought an Enya cassette (ha! cassette! what the hell is that?) because my ultimate frisbee-playing freshman (oops - person) counselor was listening to it on his walkman (ha! walkman! what the hell is that?) in the dining hall early one Sunday morning. The only early Sunday morning I ever experienced in college, come to think of it.
But now, even in the deep breathing semi-hypnotic state of pre-natal pilates, it occurred to me that Enya sounds like a grown woman trying to make spooky campfire noises accompanied by a cheap synthesizer. It's either that or some kind of soft-porn soundtrack. So I started to laugh to myself. And laughing during pilates is a bad idea. I had the choice of either farting or peeing my pants, as I am completely unable to control either one of those muscle groups while I'm seated and stable, let alone hunched over looking through my armpit with my ass in the air.
Luckily I had arrived late, so I had to set up next to the stinky hippie in the unitard, so the smell of pee and gas was hopefully overwhelmed by her natural aura.
I blame it all on Enya.


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