In typical male fashion, I laughed when Michaela told me we should start doing Pilates. Not because I’m opposed to exercise—I’m quite in need of it. It’s just something I’ve always associated with ballet dancers, which if you’ve ever seen my pirouette, you would attest I most certainly am not.
After (patiently) explaining to me that it would help my balance—something I sorely lack—and that it was training for athletes as well as dancers, I agreed to give it a try. All the while, I had it in my head that it would be a piece of cake. Make that crumb cake, extra crumb.
After my first two rounds, I can attest that it most certainly is not cake. In fact, it has no relation to the genus, whatsoever. It’s more like a good swift kick in the behind.
If you’re thinking that makes me a namby-pamby, I should point out that I could deadlift 415 lbs with excellent form (that’s right, I’m calling all the cheetahs out) in my freshman year of high school.
The lesson for today — Husbands, listen to your wives. Love them. Buy them flowers…
…That should get you out of Pilates.