My smart older sisters have blazed a trail through life for me by example. If I hadn't received my driver's license on my first try, for instance, I'd have failed tradition. So, having recently discovered that they both love Pilates, I tried it, too. Things went well until they went horribly wrong.
The trial class proved to be a uniquely pleasant way to exercise- working out flat on my back a great deal of the time- sliding against resistance springs on the moving frame of the bed-shaped apparatus called the "reformer." German-born George Pilates, who invented this exercise protocol and patented the reformer, became interested in physical fitness as a teenager and even more so during internment by the British in WW I. At that time, he worked as a nurse, experimenting with attaching springs to hospital beds so patients could start toning muscles while bedbound. In 1923, after years of study and experimentation, he came to New York and began teaching his method, which was an enormous success.
The trial class went by quickly because listening to instructions and correcting my form was a good distraction from watching the clock. Also, the instructor talked to us as if we were very, very young. "No Elvis in the pelvis," she admonished. "Watch your shoulders; we don't want grumpy shoulders." The kindergarten vibe was pleasant -- no thinking required. Mama's got you.
So, I signed up for three months -- agreeing to have the fee extracted from my bank account every month and registering for one class a week at the one day and time I could attend.
For the first few weeks, it was fun. I made a new friend. We both showed up weekly in ponytails, read the same science books, and laughed a lot. Then, one day, we entered class, and neither of our names appeared on the electronic check-in tablet. Perplexed because we had signed up and paid at the same time, we told the front desk clerk something was wrong with the system, put on our grip socks, and went on into the workout room. If you are more than 5 minutes late, you forfeit your place, and we are both rule abiders.
Assuming the front desk would resolve the glitch, we laid down on our reformers and started warming up, bending our knees to bring the carriage down, stretching to fully extend it and back again. But about 5 minutes into my stretches, I looked up to find the front desk lady staring down at me. She is very short with a curly gray bob. She is usually a very smiley person. "You're not registered for this class," she said, "And" pointing to a lady she had in tow also staring down at me, "she is."
It's very hard to have a dignified conversation from flat on your back, but I tried. "Of course, I'm registered! You registered me and took the fee out again just today."
"You're not registered," she repeated as if this was the only sentence she had learned in a foreign language.
I could feel myself getting frustrated, confused, and embarrassed. The whole room was gliding back and forth, listening, and the implication that I had somehow broken a rule and was not part of the group was disorienting. They say the greatest trigger for anger is injustice. I was going there fast.
"But I am registered," I insisted. "That's my teacher!" I waved at Miss Mandy, who didn't acknowledge me. "I've been here every week for a month," I protested as I slid by. I didn't want to lose my momentum. My replacement stared down at me without expression.
"You are not registered," the front desk lady repeated.
We were devolving into "am too,"/ "are not." I had no recourse but to pack my things and leave the class.
In the vestibule, as Miss Mandy continued to exhort my former classmates to enjoy the "delicious" stretches only a few feet away, my entire afternoon wasted, the front desk clerk explained that although no one had told me when I joined, at this particular club, when you pay for three months, you have not reserved a place in a class for three months. You must re-select your class every 4 weeks. And it's competitive. You might not get into the class you requested.
So, she was not wrong. I thought I had reserved the 12 class spots I paid for, when in fact I had paid for 12 but only reserved four.
I went home and used my words. I wrote about the embarrassment of having not been informed. About the inelegance of the system. It was a polite letter, not a grumpy letter and I got a very reasonable response. We were all well-intentioned and I really liked the staff. So, I picked up where I had left off and everything was going great again.
But this happened.
The day after being kicked out of class, I received an email requesting that I post an online review of the class I had been required to leave. I demurred. A very vulnerable family member had just been hospitalized, and between worrying and working, and still feeling a bit stung, I just didn't have the motivation to write the requested glowing corporate promotion. I was lucky I could even get myself to class.
I got another email. Then another. Many, many emails, and then a text. The text said something like, "Hi Laura! This is your Pilates instructor, Mandy! Just hit this link to share a review. (And if it's not complimentary, don't post it; just tell us privately how we can help.)"
I was so frustrated by then I thought, all-right all-ready! If Mandy is now asking me personally, I'll write a review! Anything to make these things stop!
So, I replied to the text. "Hi, Mandy, I have had a family member scary-sick in the hospital, and I work full time, but I am happy to take a moment to share that class has been a pleasant respite from a day at my desk, and you are an excellent instructor." I hit send and got back a version of this: "This is not really Mandy! You can't reply to this text; your message was not delivered to anyone."
Pilates enthusiasts say that in 10 days, you'll feel better, in 20 days, you'll look better, and in 30 days, you'll be a new person.