Now, I'm sure you are conjuring up images of a very flexible, sporty, athletic type - with supple bones and limbs that could take out the enemy in one foul swoop -but this is me we are talking about so at least we both know that this isn't the case. I was actually participating in an Improver's Pilates class - not sure why I am classed as an Improver when I haven't even mastered the art of breathing properly (and no, it's not a simple matter of 'breathe in, breathe out'...there is actual skill involved, honest...). But as I took to the mat, amidst a sea of toned, lithe bodies, all the while thinking that my wobbly reflection in the large mirror rather sadly (but truthfully) told me that I needed to be doing something more aerobic than trying to 'reach out' to my pelvic floor, I was not anticipating the accident about to happen...
When are you are not very good at something but have nowhere to hide/run, you have two choices - rise to the task or leave the room very quietly. NEVER one to shy away from a challenge, I decided that the smug skinny minny standing next to me was not going to show me up and that I would do everything in my physical power to keep up with her. So, I took to the floor and before I knew it, I was rocking backwards and forwards on my generous rump, legs and arms raised in the air in a V-shape (are you picturing this?) gathering momentum. What I was supposed to do was rock backwards/forwards in a 'controlled' manner, using my 'core muscles' (haha) to aid the movement. What I wasn't supposed to do was jerk in a rather erratic fashion, legs and arms flaying wildly (due to missing core muscles) and eventually kick my Pilates instructor very hard in the side of the head. 'OOOOWWWW!' she cried. 'OH MY GOD!!' I cried back, mortified, followed by silence and dumbfounded looks from my fellow athletes...
If this was an isolated incident, I would think nothing of it and put it down to sheer bad luck. But there was also the time when I managed to facially wound the Social Captain at my old tennis club (the irony in that being she wasn't particularly sociable with me afterwards). It has been said, by people who have played tennis with me, that I err towards the more aggressive side of play, that I 'hit like a bloke' and that there is nothing particularly graceful about my technique. In my defence, I would argue that grace is for wimps and that slugging a racquet around for an hour is utterly satisfying, especially when you imagine that your worst enemy's face is on the small green ball coming at you. There is also the assumption that I am able to change the pace of my strokes but this would require an element of skill which I do not yet possess. So, for the time being, I will continue to grunt, continue to whack and absolutely love every second of it. And in any case, it wasn't my fault that she got the ball square on between the eyes. She should have ducked. A bit like my Pilates instructor...
