What is more humbling than one’s first pilates class? 

One’s primera clase de pilates. An hour ago, my emergency self-confidence reserve was drained as I struggled to survive my first pilates class in my second language. 

Most of the instruction was straight forward: Breath. Return to the board position. Round your back. Sit erect. Legs up. Legs to the floor. 

There were, however, many confounding moments. Open (?) your ribs. Fortunately, I just learned the word for ribs (costillas) earlier this week. Unfortunately, I don’t know what ‘open your ribs’ means in any language.

But frankly, I doubt I interpreted that direction properly. My failure to adequately do something with my costillas prompted the instructor to glide toward me and ask if this was my primera vez and then the dreaded ¿Hablas Castellano?. The twenty women (including the pretty girl four-feet away from me) chuckled.

Hands on the floor; culo toward el techo; face triply red from exercise, gravity slurping blood into my forehead and mild embarrassment – definitely my least favorite position.  

To further add to my displeasure, the middle-aged, stretching-veteran next to me quickly considered me a Spanish Incompetent, channeled her limited English and assumed the role of official translator. 

“Otro lado,” the instructor said. Other side, the do-gooder whispered. 

Within five minutes, I had attracted both the instructor’s attention and my neighbor’s mildly patronizing comments. During the ensuing fifty-five, I strained to mimic the examples, straighten my back, point my toes (or bend my ankles or point my toes then bend my ankles) and understand the next bit of abdominal torture the teacher spewed. 

Finally, I completed my first class without becoming Pontius Pilates and washing my hands of the stress.