The Lost Core

The most compelling evidence for the existence of my stomach muscles is the fact that I am able to stand up.  A rounded tum has never bothered me, it's a good place to prop a book in the bath.  I had a school friend who told me she put salt in her belly button on the beach and dipped chips in it.  Picture her on the sand in Brazil, serenaded by Frank, short and pale and round and peckish, the girl from Chipanema...

Apparently Jennifer Aniston can bounce a coin off her stomach.  Once you've done that a few times I imagine you contemplate the emptiness of your life outside the gym and have a little cry.  I can rest a trio of loving heads and a bowl of popcorn on mine.  Forget apples and pears, bodies are either trampolines or beanbags.  Snuggle up.

Still, what I used to have, giving my tummy an elegant frame, was a waist.  This is what I miss.  Marilyn Monroe was a size 16, one up from me, but her size was poured into an hourglass whereas mine is sloshing about in a bowl.  I am in smock territory.  I do love the '70s, the waft of a kaftan, a shake of beads and a peace sign, but I actually suit the '40s.  I'm not laid back enough for hazy days of dope and tambourines.  I prefer a sentimental song and a stiff upper cocktail.  Swing through today in case we don't have tomorrow.  But I need a nipped in waist.

So I have joined a Pilates class to see if I can find one.  I am the youngest in the class by at least 30 years.  'You're very mobile,' said the teacher. 'You might have problems with that'.  My joints are hyperextended, she says, and I should try to keep them under control.  My breathing is unruly too.  'Pilates breathing is different to Yoga breathing.  It's the other way round.'  I have no idea how to breathe the other way round.

'Forget the breathing,' she said, 'Just do the positions'.  I try to connect with my core.  Don't talk about stomach muscles, it's all about Core Strength.  I need a lot more of it.

The pace is gentle - I'd like to work harder.  I can learn the moves and do them at home.  I miss the banter in my London yoga class.  Laughter is encouraged there.  Here, I'm not sure that interrupting the careful breathing with a joke would be welcome.  Someone might expire.

Still, I am pleased to be there.  I am using lazy muscles, I have to make an effort, despite the slow mood in the class.  The room overlooks the sea.  During the class the waves turn from grey to a kaleidescope of green blues.  A good place to breathe, any way round.  Outside seagulls are riding the north-east wind, bodies fluid in the raw air.  I have a long way to go.