Pilates Girl Quotes

Girls that ate ribs, chewed tobacco, fought dirty, and had no idea what Pilates was. My kind of women.

I can’t bear to wear flats, and it’s not a height thing. The rounded toe of the ballet slipper-style shoes do not appeal to me. Let’s face it, none of us over thirty, forty, fifty and on, are ballerinas. No, girls, Pilates is not ballet. I’ve been told I am built like a ballerina, but I’ve also been told I dance like a stripper. Did you ever ask someone how they thought you dance? You may be in shock, or maybe they will be.

Her eyeballs sail north, toward the top of her head, and we can all learn something from an untimely tragic death. What a danger, blaming other people for your problems. What a waste of a life. Had she disowned her cunty family and moved to one of her sunny foreign havens and been a bartender or a Pilates instructor, anything, doesn’t matter, she could have settled down with a nice, like-minded girl and paid respects for all her blessings—health, brains, muscles—by being true to herself.

Mr. Pilates was a bully and a narcissist and a dirty old man; he and Christopher got along very well. When Christopher was doing his workout, Pilates would bring one of his assistants over to watch, rather as the house surgeon brings an intern to study a patient with a rare deformity. ‘Look at him!’ Pilates would exclaim to the assistant, ‘That could have been a beautiful body, and look what he’s done to it! Like a birdcage that somebody trod on!’ Pilates had grown tubby with age, but he would never admit it; he still thought himself a magnificent figure of a man. ‘That’s not fat,’ he declared, punching himself in the stomach, ‘that’s good healthy meat!’ He frankly lusted after some of his girl students. He used to make them lie back on an inclined board and climb on top of them, on the pretext that he was showing them an exercise. What he really was doing was rubbing off against them through his clothes; as was obvious from the violent jerking of his buttocks.

THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST “Now when He rose early on the first day of the week, He appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom He had cast seven demons” (Mark 16:9). I would never have orchestrated the Resurrection the way the Lord chose to do it. After escaping the tomb I would have appeared to Herod or Pilate and gloated about how impotent were their soldiers, seal, and stone to prevent me from rising. I would have dared Herod to fetch the purple robe and crown of thorns if he had the audacity to mock me again. Or at least I would have appeared to the high priest and leaders who condemned me and made them squirm and shake in their sandals. I would have watched the blood drain from their faces as they pondered the terrible truth that they had condemned and executed their long-awaited Messiah. If I were producing the Resurrection, I would at least have Jesus initially appear to the disciples or perhaps to His mother, Mary. But Jesus chose to pass by all these logical options; -185- He first revealed Himself to a social outcast. Jesus deliberately waited until Peter, John, and even His own mother had left the garden area to bestow on a formerly demon-possessed prostitute, saved by grace, the highest honor ever to be granted any mortal. Why? Why is it that the first words spoken by Jesus after His resurrection were to Mary, and yet this is the last time she appears in the Sacred Record? To highlight and underscore the truth that He came to seek and save the lost. To remind us that if He can transform, save, and commission a meek and weak girl named Mary—well, then, there is hope for each one of us.

Every single day we're alive, we're choosing this life and this persona. We choose to be the stay-at-home mom who loves baking and Pilates. We choose to be a hipster who loves coffee shops and artisan goods. We choose to be a lawyer who runs marathons and only eats organic. Every single aspect of our persona, no matter how long we've rocked it, is a choice we make every day.

The only thing she was certain of was that she wasn’t thin. Except for a brief respite during her late teens and early twenties, she had struggled with her weight her entire life. This was the dark truth behind Lydia’s burning hatred for the Mothers: she couldn’t stand them because she couldn’t be more like them. She liked potato chips. She loved bread. She lived for a good cupcake—or three. She didn’t have time to work out with a trainer or take back-to-back Pilates classes.

The women of the Upper East Side, Dallas, Palm Beach, and even Silicon Valley all felt just a bit better about their choice in party planner knowing that they could tell the ladies at SoulCycle or Pilates that yes, the wedding is overwhelming, but at least they have that fabulous girl from Good Morning, Later helping them out, so things are under control. Those kinds of bragging rights carried a premium. In the aftermath of the Spice It Up debacle, Olga realized that she’d allowed herself to become distracted from the true American dream—accumulating money—by its phantom cousin, accumulating fame. She would never make that mistake again.

He further said Neiers “seemed to be a good girl” and had achieved the “highest level in Pilates you can earn.” (When I later contacted the Pilates Method Alliance, the governing body of Pilates in the United States, they said no such ranking exists.)

On my way home from work last night, I had the brilliant idea to start working out. I was going to go for early morning runs and start a Pilates routine. I’ve always been in love with my body. I’m one of those love the body you’re in kinda girls, but damn, I’d kill to look like one of those gym girls with the dump truck ass and the toned stomach, but now that the sun is streaming in through my bedroom window, I don’t know how badly I actually want it.