Welcome back to “The Straight-Male Case,” an intermittent series in which Will Rahn confronts the things lesser men fear. So far, he’s immersed himself in Taylor Swift and Sex and the City. Today, it’s an exercise class strongly associated with ladies in Lycra.
I’m wearing mesh shorts and an extra-large sweatshirt. My legs, kept aloft by straps, are swirling. I’m trying to move my pelvis but not my hips. I’m sweating, coughing, a goddamn mess.
Some journalists are sent to war zones. Others spend months or even years uncovering a great scandal. But me? I’m tasked, to my great embarrassment, with writing what my editors call “the straight-male case for Pilates.” I’ve done all I can to avoid writing this “story,” which is really just a joke at my expense. At age 38, I have the face of a nerd and the body of a retired linebacker. I’ve gained 20 pounds since my son was born a year ago, an event that coincided with my joining The Free Press.
