Experts: Who needs 'em? No really...who?

The world is full of “experts” who are chomping at the bit to educate their fellow humans—from the annoying commuter who feels the need to explain to tourists that the Times Square Shuttle only has one stop, to the grandmother who feels it's her calling to tell you to shower before entering the pool at the gym, to the third time vacationer who insists on helping you navigate the hotel buffet. But did I ask you?

Last summer I went to watch Shakespeare in the park at Boscobel, a 19th century mansion overlooking the Hudson River. It was a gorgeous day, and before the sun sets and the play starts, ticket holders can picnic and enjoy a bottle of wine in the lush gardens. As I did just this, already embarrassed at the fold up table and chair I was assured was needed by another expert—my mother—I noticed a couple who had really gone all out. They looked like a Monet garden scene, with the woman in a long cotton dress and straw hat, a blue and white checkered tablecloth complete with mouth watering feast, and the backdrop of colorful roses exploding behind them. To my annoyance, they sat next to me when the play opened and the woman leaned over, invaded my personal space, and asked if I came here often. After admitting it was my first time, a look of flushed satisfaction came over her face as she proceeded to let me know “how things were done” here. She listed the plays she'd seen as if applying for a job as a Shakespeare analyst, described how the actors were quite raunchy and even made the tragedies seem funny, gave me the Cliff Notes version of the play we were about to see and provided the intricate details of her picnic dinner. I couldn’t even bother (lest I act as an expert myself) to correct her assumption of my literary ignorance—I had spent a full semester at University studying the complete works of Shakespeare and knew the plays inside and out. “And you might want to shrink down in your seat, because they pick people from the audience to help them act out!” she squealed unbecomingly. What intense satisfaction I felt, then, upon the realization later on that the people “picked out” of the crowd were obviously actors and had their lines scripted, so my overenthusiastic friend would NEVER be picked, raise her hand and whinny as she may.

Flash forward to this weekend. I decided to try Pilates for the first time at a local gym. An unsocial person by nature, my plan was to go 15 minutes early to get a good seat and to avoid having to talk to the regulars. Foiled again. As I sat minding my own business, a middle age woman expert came over to me and said “You got the wrong rubber band.” I wanted to say "And you have a thorny rose tattooed to your leg, but I'm not complaining." Instead I gave a half-hearted thanks and exchanged my rope for the correct, plastic Thera-Band. I resumed my position when I heard: “Oh, and, we usually turn our mats vertically.” Swinging my head to the right I scrunched up my face and said: “What?” to try to ward off her unwanted advice. “Otherwise there won’t be room for everyone else.” Before I could move, an older man (think Chris Elliot from his Get a Life days, but gray) came in and shouted “Oh boy, a Newbie!” to my distress. Walking over to where I was sitting, he circled around like a lost dog trying to pick up his poop scent. Finally, the woman expert leaned towards him and in an obvious whisper, said: “She took your seat.” I stood up dramatically, moved my mat into vertical position and gave her evils while Chris Elliot squeezed in next to me.

At that moment I vowed that I would kick some Pilates booty, Newbie or not! And boy, did I. As Chris groaned to my right and the lithe, scrawny ass teenager cried to my left, I pushed myself to the limit, with a smile (grimace) on my face. But with every move we made, Chris felt the need to give me a tip (You may not want to use the band on your first day, I betcha don’t know what we do with the pole…), or ask if I was regretting my decision to join the class.

At one point as we lay on our sides, facing each other, doing leg lifts, Chris’s gelatinous belly fell out of his shirt and sank onto the floor like a half filled water balloon. “Gonna come back for more?” he said through clenched teeth as sweat slipped off the remaining “island” of hair on his head and invaded his eyes. I ignored him and kicked my legs higher.

At the end of class, Chris slinked over to me and again asked if, being new, I would dare to try the class again. Looking around I noticed he was the only man, and picturing his lame attempts at the moves and his obviously out of shape physique (despite being the mayor of the class) it occurred to me that he was only there to meet women. “Bring it on,” I hissed.**

**Actually I said "Yes!" followed by a dorky giggle but I thought my other ending was more dramatic.
***As a side note, it’s been several days since I can walk. But we won’t mention that to Chris or any of the other experts in the class.