The reformer is depressing me. I still can't "use the reformer to walk myself back up". And if I'm to keep working out in our bedroom, the giant mirror beside my has to go. I keep looking at the TV and what it's supposed to look like, and then looking at the harsh blast of reality in the mirror. My arms are really jacked up, I am a cripple. The driving force, besides the bathing suit and hot husband, is that I don't want it to get worse. So I am committed to keeping up the pilates torture with the hope that my body will remember that it used to be more flexible. I will occasionally pop in the aerobic dance video to remind myself that I'm also horribly uncoordinated, you know, for balance.
I finished that book, and I was angry with her. Not for (spoiler alert) leaving him in the end, but for turning down the personnel trainer and diet program. Bitch, do you know how expensive it is to have a personnel trainer four days a week. Idiot. I would have crossed out everything else that kinky bastard had in the contract and said I would like to get in shape first if he didn't mind. There's no explaining people.
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