A Bucket of Pain

Tomorrow at 6:45AM I leave for a Pilates retreat somewhere in southern Turkey. The retreat will last one week. The accommodations will be simple, the surroundings low-key. It promises to be quiet, peaceful and relaxing.

And, most certainly, painful.

The mere fact that I have consigned myself to a week’s “holiday” of exercising and sore muscles – that will no doubt keep me up at night complaining – seems questionable.  That I actually asked for this retreat for my birthday present seems truly nutters.

Oh, yeah, now I remember why I did this.

I blame it entirely on that ludicrous tradition called “New Year’s Resolutions.” On the eve of that special day, I vaguely remember reflecting over (a) my age (let’s just say that gravity ain’t my best friend); (b) my routine (I love it but it’s probably in the yawn category); (c) the promise of the new year; and (d) a “bucket list” someone wrote of ‘things you must do before you die’ which included writing one’s own bucket list .

Which I did.

And obviously included something like “travel”, “active adventure”, and “masochism.”

I also blame it on the champagne I was drinking when celebrating the new year and toasting “bucket lists” as ssshhoo veeerree inshpiraaaashonal annd brilllyaant. (Does alcohol ever lower any inhibitions or motivate ideas that we later on don’t totally regret and think stuuuupppiiiddd?)

So, off I go, for a week of torture by a lovely woman named Rosa. So, don’t expect a blog next week. Or the week after depending on if I have regained use of my limbs and can lift my arms high enough to type on a keyboard.

Any last words?

Be careful what you wish for.

(Oh, and, Rosa, pretty-please-with-Splenda-on-top go easy on me.)

P.S. Did I mention that I don’t even DO Pilates?

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