I have achieved a certain level of confidence at the YMCA’s noon exercise classes. I sort of know the routines and for the most part I hold my own. Sure, I’m usually the only dude among the fit moms, but I have embraced my role as the token man and they have accepted me.

Today, I strolled into tabata class with my signature over confidence. First, push ups. No problem. Burpees were up next. I had this.

Then came the next move, one that I didn’t recognize. The instructor called it a Cross Jack or something of some sort. She demonstrated. Arms crossed and unwound, feet crossed and unwound, there may have been a jump thrown into the mix. My likelihood of success was about zero. I shrugged. I had faced down more fearsome moves. I had this.

Then it started. The arms, the legs, an uncoordinated jump. My body was moving every which way with no apparent pattern. My classmates moved with grace, I moved like a broken River Dancer on ice. It was a sad thing to see in the mirror. Sad to see in any way.

Soon, my prayers were answered and the routine moved to a more reasonable form of torture mixed with sweat and breathlessness. My classmates appeared to accept me back into the fold. I was back, but a little of my shine had been removed. Glisten replaced with uncoordinated humiliation.