But I’m a changed woman. I’ve started Pilates. Not only have I started Pilates, but I’m going to class with my 27-year-old, 100-pound, blond-hair, blue-eyed coworker! I’m not blond, haven’t seen 100 on the scale maybe ever and I have at least two decades on her. Doesn’t this just sound amazing?
I told my sister that we were going to start working out together and she replied, “Oh, you’re doing Pilates with Jadine, huh?” Between her tone and the facial expression, the connotation was clear: What are you thinking, you-chubby-little-chipmunk you?
Katie: I mean, we have our wedding this summer and I need to work on me.
Sister: Wait, what do you mean “our” wedding?
Katie: Well, I’m going to be there. Jadine’s going to be there. Her fiancée will be there.
Sister: What?
Katie: Jadine’s getting married, I’m the coworker of the bride, it’s like this whole thing.
Sister: No, this isn’t your thing. This is hers.
Katie: Do you think she wants old and ugly people there? I have no choice. I have to do this.
So Jadine and I went to class together. Me, in my old sweatpants and a shirt with a hole in the armpit and a fry sauce stain down the front. Her, completely done up in a matching outfit that I’m assuming was actually made for working out.
Oh, and did I mention, she went to college to be a professional ballerina? Isn’t life fun?
Our first class started pretty much like this. They told us to plank, she rose up and held a plank without moving a centimeter. As I was watching her move in LITERAL perfection, I looked down at my chubby little knees shaking and thought about faking a medical emergency.
It gets worse. At some point we moved to planking on a BOSU ball. What is this you ask? It’s a big exercise ball with a flat bottom. It features an inflated rubber dome on one side and a hard, flat platform on the other, making it ideal for stupid words such as “core strength” and “balance drills.”
Ten seconds in, I realized that my ugly sweat was pooling on the ball. Before I even knew what was happening, the sweat was under both of my hands so they slipped out from beneath me at the exact same time. I slammed by head so hard against the top of the ball, the instructor had to stop class. I can’t even make this stuff up. Jadine, who truly is the nicest person, told me it was a graceful slide. Like a seal, with no elbows, on a circus ball.
By the end of class, Jadine looked refreshed. She had that healthy glow people get after exercise. I looked like I had survived a natural disaster. As we walked to our cars, she said, “That was fun!”
Fun? That’s a word I typically reserve for vacations and queso dip. But I smiled and agreed because I was too tired to argue.
The next morning, I discovered muscles in places that I didn’t know muscles existed. Getting out of bed required a strategic plan and possibly a spotter. I rolled onto the floor and just laid there for a minute contemplating my choices.
Then something strange happened. The following week, I went back. Not because I suddenly loved Pilates. Let’s not get crazy. I went back because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was actually doing something about all the things I’d been talking about for five years. I’ve been announcing my “second chapter” like it’s a movie trailer.
Coming soon! New Katie! Better habits! Personal growth! Maybe vegetables!
And then… nothing.
But showing up to Pilates, even while dressed like a yard sale and balancing with the grace of a newborn giraffe, felt different. It wasn’t dramatic. Nobody played inspirational music. There wasn’t a montage. I haven’t lost 20 pounds or found inner peace.
I just showed up. Then I showed up again. And again. Yes, Jadine also keeps showing up and continues to be perfect. She’s balanced. She’s snatched. She moves like a Disney princess with incredible core strength.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped comparing myself to her. Because the point has never been about becoming a young blond. The point was to become the version of me who actually does the things she says she’s going to do.
Turns out, a second chapter doesn’t start when your life looks completely different. It starts when you do. Sometimes it’s not a huge leap. Sometimes it’s just a middle-aged woman climbing onto a BOSU ball and refusing to fall off it forever. Or at least refusing to quit until after Jadine does.