06.05.23
My alarm went off at 6:30, and for the first thirty minutes of being sentient, I completely forgot that I had a pilates class at 8am.
I started going to a Monday morning pilates class on 181st Street three weeks ago, and have gone every Monday since (all two Mondays since…). The studio is a thirty minute walk from my apartment, through Fort Tryon Park, and is only an hour long. I like being on a reformer machine because it makes me feel like if I slack or try to cheat the moves, I might literally die, somehow.
I put away my dried dishes from last night and had a cup of coffee, congratulating myself for actually doing my dishes last night — a feat only achieved because I had forty-four minutes worth of voice memos from Saraphina to catch up on (this seems like a lot, I’m sure, to an outside observer. Rest assured this is a very normal amount for us). I put on a Go-Go’s t-shirt and leggings that do not stay up if I run, as I have found these types of old leggings are fine for pilates. I put my hair in pigtails and don my Mets cap, and set off through the park.
Uptown is nothing if not hilly. I never understood people who said things like, “I walked to school two miles, in the snow, uphill both way,” because as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t geologically possible. Living uptown has debunked this stance.
Every part of me is desperate to be outside in the morning, but I often need somewhere to be in order to go outside in the morning. Be it knowing I already paid to be there, or the possibility of losing a job, or a distaste for canceling on friends, I need an external motivator to get me to do…well, pretty much anything. But especially in the morning. I don’t have much of an issue with getting up early, it’s the getting out early that’s challenging. But every Monday for three weeks (THREE), I have left the house by 7:30am, to walk through the park, and go to pilates.
I walk past the Cabrini Woods and then past the Castle Village Apartments, where I have decided in the last three weeks of walks to and from Monday morning pilates class (?!?!?!) is a place that I would like to buy an apartment if I ever find myself very rich. The co-op has scaffolding shrouding its pathways right now, but looking past it you can see several Adirondack chairs and terraces and sweeping views of the cliffs of New Jersey, purchased and preserved by John D. Rockefeller so no one could build on it and sully its natural beauty, and the grand George Washington Bridge. There are signs that say these spots are for residents only, but I have never seen anyone outside and enjoying them on the six occasions I have walked past the complex (on account of going to and from pilates), despite it clearly being a perfect spot to enjoy a morning coffee. A wasted luxury. The apartments themselves, which I have obviously lost hours of my life to scoping out on Zillow and StreetEasy, are nicely designed, which I find to be a rarity on these apps. They have built-in bookshelves and high ceilings and pretty floors, well-manicured bathrooms and bay windows and lots of light. I love them. I would die for one. But then I suppose I wouldn’t get to enjoy it.
My pilates teacher is tiny and has a nice speaking voice. I have enjoyed going to her for the past three weeks. Contrary to some of my past experiences taking workout classes, I have found myself quite liking pilates. Even on Monday mornings at 8am.
