My Pilates outfit isn’t the most flattering thing I’ve ever worn. Think pigtails, a tight white vest, baggy linen trousers and plimmies / deck shoes. Mr P likened me to an All Saint when he saw me in all my glory. For those readers who were born after 1990, here’s a visual.
It was weird the first time I ventured out in flat shoes just how small I am. I mean, I know I’m a short-arse but I’ve never been outside without an extra 5 or so inches strapped onto my plates of meat and the difference is shudderingly awful. I felt like a midget as I stretched to get my key in the door, standing on tiptoes to peer over my neighbour’s hedges which I usually swish past without a thought. Not to mention the fact that having my soles so close to the ground bloody hurts. I got cramp and I could feel every pebble, every ant I stepped on. So not more comfortable that a 5 inch stiletto.
And on the way back from Pilates, who should I see but one of Mr P’s ex-girlfriends (the one he left for me) Leaner than You. I just kept my head down and kept shuffling along, hoping that she hadn’t recognised me and been rubbing her hands together, praising the fact that I had indeed turned into a trainer wearing slob once I’d ensnared Mr P with my heels and fishnets.