I am told that the amount of stretching to do each week should be equivalent, or greater, than the average time spent daily on lifting.
Somehow, I’ve forgotten to do this.
So I lie down on the mat in my first Pilates class on Thursday since Christmas feeling like something bad is about to go down.
And it does.
70 year old grandmothers are kicking my ass with perfect flutter kicks and all I can do is let the instructor pull on my toes until my hip pops back into place.
“One more time,” he says, “Reach for it.”
Hands over head and feet extended, I breathe and stretch, breathe and stretch, again and again, lengthening each vertebrae in my spine, cursing the lack of flexibility, both in myself and in the desire to strive for something greater.
And silently promise to keep on stretching.