Pain on a Pilates Mat
I’ve crossed an ocean in a small leaky
boat, dived with sharks, and been escorted to a Mexican jail by a twitchy man
with an AK-47, but it took a 100-pound Pilates instructor to truly scare me.
By Terence
Loose
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T |
ime to work on our
challenged lives are going
to be butt-burning hell.
Now, admittedly, my sigh
is the loudest, because as the only male in today’s class of 20-odd women, and
with the physique of a marathon runner – without the muscles – the last thing
I’m worried about is attaining a
“No,” says Garten. And
I’ve already learned that she means what she says, so I moan into position on
my elbows and knees – cat’s pose – and endure the further determined and
painful assault on my masculinity by performing a series of excruciating
butt-clenching exercises, all while Sergeant Garten stands over me saying
things like, “tummy in,” “squeeze your butt and crack those walnuts,” and “no
frowning [i.e., sagging] butt cheeks; we’re working on creating smiles.” I want
to scream, “I’m a skinny male, my butt cheeks will smile until I’m
approximately 72, then it really doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Oh, and don’t
say tummy!”
But I don’t say anything,
because frankly, I’m afraid to make this woman mad. She’s dangerous enough when
she’s giggling.
The way I figure it, the
fact that I keep coming back for more only means I’m more of a man. Right? I
mean how secure do I have to be in my manhood to perform butt cheek clenches
and pelvic thrusts in a room full of women?
Okay, I’m not buying that
either, but the fact is that in the four months that I’ve practiced Pilates –
twice a week, an hour each session – my strength, flexibility and general
physical and psychological health have all improved dramatically. I also have a
newfound respect for the women of
Pilates can be done with
machines – specially made for the discipline – or without, which is called
matwork. I do mat Pilates, which sometimes feels like 50 minutes of sit-ups and
a few push-ups thrown in. In addition to creating Latin-flared derrieres,
matwork concentrates on core strength, flexibility and focused breathing.
Because of this, I am stronger in the surf, more fluid on the golf course, and
have more energy after the hour of torture than before it. Of course, that may
just be survivor’s exuberance, but who’s checking? Feeling good is feeling
good.
But it can’t be denied.
Despite the fact that Pilates is, by design, individualistic and non-gender
specific, so far, it seems to be a chick thing. “I’d say about five percent of
my clients are men,” says Garten, who’s been a full-time Pilates instructor for
four years and has 30 private clients and three group classes a week. On the
plus side, that represents a 400% increase in that time.
A dancer in college,
Garten discovered Pilates back in 1991, when few had heard of the practice and
most of those who had couldn’t pronounce it. For years she couldn’t find a
studio that offered it, until 1999, when she was living in
She understands why
Pilates is mainly practiced by the fairer sex, that men gravitate more toward
heaving huge chunks of lead around. She says guys think of Pilates as “girly,”
and smirk at the machines, which, with their minimalist springs and funky
straps, seem like the 100-pound weaklings of the sports equipment world. Men
simply reject the idea that a slow, determined workout on a yoga mat is going to
do much more than provide a nice nap. “Then they take a class,” she says, “and,
well, they usually change their minds.” Sure, she says, maybe a guy can bang
out 100 push-ups, “but are they Pilates push-ups?” I’m sort of afraid to
respond to that; she may make me do a set of Pilates push-ups, which, by the
way, would break The Rock. In case you doubt it, here’s the recipe for a proper
Pilates push-up: Start by standing at attention. Place hands on floor – legs
straight – and “walk” them forward until you are in plank position – back
straight, butt clenched, tummy, uh, stomach tight and in, chin out, shoulders
out of the ears. Now, bend elbows half way and breathe in without expanding
your stomach… hold… hold… okay, now straighten with exhale.
Congratulations, that’s
one.
After a set of these
during my fourth class, I told Garten, “Hey, that wasn’t so bad. I must be
getting better.”
“No, you just did them
wrong,” she says. “Pilates gets harder the better you get at it.”
“Gee, that’s encouraging.”
That got a few laughs from
my classmates; even Garten giggled. Then she stared right at me and said,
“Okay, everyone into cat’s pose. Time to crunch some walnuts and make those
butts smile.”
That was pretty much the
last time I talked back.
Duly intimidated – not to
mention scared and sore – in those first few days after entering the Pilates
world, I needed to get more information on the methodology, not to mention why
there were so few men doing it. I mean, were my future children in jeopardy
here?
Now, if you’ve read any of
my previous stories of personal discovery, first, well, I’m sorry. Second,
you’ll know that when I’m cornered by my own ignorance, I search for a Dummies
book on the subject. Fatherhood for Dummies, Windsurfing for Dummies, Magazine
Writing for Dummies (I only skimmed that one)…. Basically, I’m a very well-read
dummy.
It should be said that
concerning Pilates, there is no better way to learn correctly than in a
reputable studio with an experienced instructor. So I pretty much skipped over
the how-to parts and concentrated on cracking why Pilates seemed more aimed at
chicks than Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
I didn’t have to look much
further than the cover: three women doing something called a Teaser pose and a
woman author. But I decided not to judge it by all this and looked inside. I
scanned the contents page. Trouble came a few lines down when a chapter title
started: “Meow!” A few lines further and it got worse: “Size Does Matter.” And
an entire part devoted to “Pilates for the Pregnant…” Some other words stood
out: Poochy, Swan, Chicken and Mermaid. Yes, my machismo was taking some
serious shots to the tummy.
But then it occurred to me
that for a very long time, yoga was thought of as a sissy thing. But celebrity
and athlete endorsements turned that around. Yoga became okay for guys when
Sting, David Duchovny, Woody Harrelson came out of the yoga studio closet –
actually, scratch Woody, he’s kind of fruity. Then, despite Woody, yoga became
downright de-sissified when top athletes joined them. Some of the first were
legendary surfers such as Kelly Slater, Tom Carroll and Garrett McNamara. Then
came mainstream athletes from decidedly macho sports: Minnesota Vikings great
Chris Carter, the entire New York Giants team, Shaquille O’Neal. What? You’re
gonna call Shaq a sissy? He’s 7’2”, and apparently very limber.
In fact, Yoga Works, which
has thriving studios in Laguna, Newport and Huntington Beaches, Costa Mesa,
Mission Viejo and many in Los Angeles, was the brainchild of two very
successful men whose lives were changed – they’d say saved – by yoga. Thanks to
Pilates’ close ties to yoga, and these two men’s belief that Pilates will gain
popularity among both genders, they brought Pilates mat classes and/or Pilates studios
(with machines) to every local branch.
So, here’s what I suggest:
Assuming that Budweiser is not going to sponsor a NASCAR Pilates day anytime
soon, perhaps the Oakland Raiders could trot out silver and black Pilates
machines before a game for their warm-up.
The great irony of women’s
dominance of Pilates’ studios across the nation is that the discipline’s
inventor was an Uber-male: Joseph Pilates was a muscled German boxer, diver,
gymnast, and skier born in 1880. When World War I broke out, Pilates was living
in
Not one to sit around and
let people enjoy a war, Pilates began devising his “matwork” exercises, which
he called Contrology, based on his 20 years of self-study in yoga, Zen, ancient
Greek and Roman physical regimens, and, presumably, circus acts. Then, he
“helped” his fellow internees get fit. Yes, it must have been a festive Hogan’s
Heroes-esque atmosphere indeed: One day, you’re enjoying fine English cuisine
and impressing girls with your macho foreign accent, the next you’re forced
into camps where a big German guy makes you perform 100 butt crunches. That’s
what they call, getting der schaft.
After a few years, Pilates
was transferred to another camp – apparently, the English knew what kind of
secret weapon they had here and wanted to spread it around. In Pilates’ new
camp, he became a nurse/caretaker and was turned loose on patients struck with
wartime disease and physical injury. Pilates took in the situation, made some
assessments, then began systematically tearing apart his patients’ beds. But to
be fair, it was in an effort to free them from the beds – uh, right after he
strapped them to them.
Let me explain: Pilates
took the springs from their beds and began rigging them up, along with supports
for the neck and shoulders, and straps to hold down those pesky escape-happy
feet and hands, and created resistance exercises for the bedridden. (Later, in
It wasn’t until after the
war, when his literally captive audience was freed – can you imagine that
party!? – that Pilates’ work could be truly tested on an all-voluntary basis.
This is when Pilates and his wife Clara, a trained nurse, brought his matwork
and machines to the world. And the battle-weary, obviously confused, world,
embraced them. Hey, it was better than war.
Over the following
decades, Pilates trained many instructors, not releasing them on the blissfully
out-of-shape public until after they had completed years of study. But perhaps
there has never been a better example of Pilates’ success than Joe Pilates
himself. Living a full and healthy life, right up until he died (which is
curiously hard to get info on, by the way), Pilates showed thousands how
pitiful and weak their existences were and gained a – literally – healthy
following, especially among professional dancers. Religions have been founded
on less. And to be sure, Pilates was on a mission of salvation. In 1965, at 85
years young, he declared, “I must be right. Never an aspirin. Never injured a
day in my life. The…whole world should be doing my exercises. They’d be
happier.”
Or dead, I think as I
perform my fifth grueling Down Dog Push-up in my fourth month of a love-hate relationship
with Pilates. But I do not blame Joe for my Pilates addiction. In his own
control-freak, sadistic kind of way, he seems like he was a nice guy. And he
must have done something right, because more and more of the world is joining
the Pilates revolution. In fact, on this day there are three other men and four
new women in my Pilates class; there’s barely room for Sergeant Garten to
patrol the ranks. And the male additions are good for my morale. I’m pretty
tired of losing the push-up and stomach crunches battle to the sweet woman to
my right who talks about her grandkids after class.
In fact, on this day, I’ve
been keeping an eye on the tan, muscled, six-foot-something guy who sauntered
in with his petite girlfriend and looks like he could bench press my entire
family. We’re about halfway through the class when I spot it: the first facial
signs of the “What the hell did I get myself into here” feelings that hit most
Pilates newcomers – it’s the same look I imagine hits a novice hiker who just
woke the 900-pound grizzly bear. And because I went through the same thing with
my wife, I can imagine the conversation that got him here:
Girlfriend: “Whew, Pilates
was tough today.”
Guy, smirking: “Uh, yeah,
right.”
Girlfriend: “What’s that
supposed to mean?”
Guy: “Oh, nothing. I think
it’s great for you girls to have something other than shopping. I just need
something a little more… physical.”
Now, if she was really
smart, like my wife, instead of just a direct challenge at this point, she
played with him a little before setting the trap…
Girlfriend: “We did a lot
of tummy crunches, and ten push-ups.”
Guy: “Oh, gee, a whole
ten?”
Bam. Gotcha. Next stop,
pain on a mat.
I’m enjoying this little
movie playing through my mind when Sergeant Garten snaps me out of it. “Butt
up, heals down, suck in that tummy, relax the neck.”
After class I corral the
only male who has been coming to Garten’s class longer and more consistently
than I have, Rob Wendell, a 34-year-old principal with a
“My back hurt all the
time, my knees hurt, I was totally inflexible,” says Wendell, a lifetime
athlete who spent two years on tennis’s “minor league” circuit. “I was 33, but
felt 50.” His boss, however, is 65 but looks 40. “He does yoga five times a
week, religiously, and for a long time he was trying to get me to try it.” When
Yoga Works opened up across the street from their office, Wendell had no choice
but to give it a shot.
But yoga wasn’t for him.
“There was a lot of chanting and just getting into and out of the poses it felt
like I was going to be in traction. I knew it would help me, but it was too big
a leap.”
So Wendell wandered into a
Pilates class hoping it was a better fit – hey, at least it was half an hour
shorter. He took his first class with a woman he describes as the Pilates Nazi.
“Harder than Sergeant Garten?” I ask. “Oh, man, yeah,” he says as if we’re
talking battle stories, “but even though it was hard, I enjoyed the entire
hour. And I went back to work with renewed energy.”
Soon, he took a class from
Garten and now shows up religiously unless he is traveling. And to be fair, it
should be pointed out that the universal power of Pilates, and the mark of a
good instructor like Garten, is that with every exercise given there are
several positions from which to choose – each making the workout a notch
harder. The problem for us guys, of course, is our ego’s inability to choose
the proper one for our own bodies while lying next to a grandmother who’s doing
super-advanced moves without breaking a sweat.
Indeed, that’s something
Wendell had to overcome as well.
“I’ve been out to lunch
with the guys and had 55-year-old women come up to me and say, ‘Wasn’t that the
greatest class on Thursday?’” he says.
“So you admit it to your
friends?” I ask.
“Honesty is always the
best policy, right?” he says.
“Dude, this is Pilates.”
“Uh, right, well, anyway,
I knew I was going to take a lot of heat,” he says. “But it makes me feel so
good, I don’t care.” Wendell says he feels 10 years younger (so is that 24 or
40?), can play tennis and run again and has no back pain. “Besides,” he says,
“an all women class is not necessarily a bad thing.”
True, and there’s been a
lot of talk in the last few years about how yoga studios are the new singles
bars. After all, the ratios are a lot better for a single male, and with better
lighting, body-hugging workout attire, and the lack of “war paint,” it’s been
suggested people know better what they’re getting – on both sides of the
equation.
“So, have you ever met a
woman in Pilates?” I ask Wendell.
“Uh, no comment,” he says.
Right, a diplomat. But also a gentleman, at least from what I’ve seen over the
last four months. Besides, no man in his right mind would go through what we go
through weekly even if it meant a date with Angelina Jolie, who probably does
advanced Pilates and probably would just kick our pansy
Finally, like Wendell,
I’ve decided that Pilates is too good to give up. I’m leaner, stronger, more
flexible and relaxed, and so far have not noticed any growth of my feminine side.
So I take any flack I get from my male friends in stride and with a deep
cleansing breath, because I know, no matter what, at least one part of me is
always smiling.