I particularly enjoy the fact that the studio I go to is so small and tucked away in Wan Chai. I know nobody there, and appreciate the freedom anonymity and two hours of peaceful meditative exercise does to my general mental and physical health.
Not for long, though. Last week, as I unsuspectingly squeaked out of my class on my slip-proof 5-toe socks, I suddenly found myself in the midst of a French Banker Congregation. Only they'd swapped their Westins and blue suits for aforementioned socks and graying shorts (thank goodness they spared me leggings).
It took me a very long half-a-second to register that a) this is the first time I've seen that many men here and b) I don't think I've ever seen T's friends standing around in socks (have I already mentioned the toes?) and shorts before. It felt like a bit of an Allie McBeal moment, when she imagines all the lawyers naked in the court room, only there was no waking up from this daydream/nightmare.
Turns out that T has been promoting the wonders of pilates at Le Banque, claiming that it can cure back ache and get rid of paunches in 10 sessions. The fact that T has never actually been to a pilates class and has no intention of ever doing so, is something that this loyal fan base seem to have generously overlooked. Sigh.
I'm considering getting a facial next week. I hope to goodness I don't have to sit anywhere next to a bunch of traders with cucumbers on their eyelids. I couldn't take it.