Hermione

Do you remember the day… after you’d read two or three Harry Potter books… when you found out (to your great relief), that it wasn’t pronounced Herm-ee-own?  Me, too.  It was like a powerful weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I’d been having such trouble relating to a girl with a name like Herm-ee-own.  I mean really, it conjures pictures of a balding Mr. Magoo or something.

But Her-my-o-nee.  Now that’s different.  Pretty.  Like an anemone or Persephone.  That’s a child witch I can get behind.

I remember a similar revelation after years of reading fashion magazines.  It’s been probably two decades that I’ve been reading articles about an intangible mystery exercise: Py-lates.  And then, maybe five years ago, someone clued me into: Pi-la-tees…. still conjuring images of some kind of Plato Socrates mash-up.

So after years of watching my exercise routine dwindle down to one precious soccer game per week and a twice daily hike to and from the train station to save $50 on a monthly parking pass, I’ve been going to a weekly Pilates class after our swim lessons.

So far I kind of like it.  You don’t really sweat, but your muscles hurt for at least two days, so it seems like I’m getting my money’s worth.  If you’re still wondering what it is exactly… I’ve surmised after a month that it’s a lot of tightening your core and relaxing your shoulders and concentrating so that the teacher doesn’t spend all her time correcting your form.  Plus sometimes you get to go on this big machine called The Reformer.  Which, frankly, I just like the idea of striking a Wonder Woman pose and declaring, “Out of my way.  That’s my Reformer.”  I might even invest in some of those fancy lemon meringue pants all the yuppy yoga moms wear.

Every Saturday Jakey asks me, “So, how was Killates?”

I think he may be onto something.