I went to a pilates class at the Y the other day.. I'm not sure who came up with the word pilates, but probably nobody turned up when they just called it torture. some irritatingly perky 20-something self-described "dancer" and "instructor" named Whitney directed us to do increasingly painful things with our bodies, using our own body weight to inflict pain on ourselves. Whitney could afford to be pretty happy about all this because a) she was the only one of us getting paid to be there, and b) she wasn't actually doing any of the exercises. it was painfully obvious that she knew exactly who had the better end of this deal. there was no music, no conversation, no sense of accomplishment, just a collective relieved grunt at the end of each set.. which she frequently delayed by saying things like, "why are you stopping? did I say 10? heehee! oh, I meant 20!" I was there with my two teenage nieces and sometimes I like to think of myself as a role model for others, so I restrained myself from tripping Whitney so I could hold her down and whisper in her ear, "get down here and do this set, bitch, and then say that."