I am genetically gifted with the lower body muscle mass of a sickly chicken and the agility of a Boston Celtics-era Shaquille O’Neal.

That said, I do enjoy lifting weights. Since senior year of high school, I’ve gone to the gym at least three times a week to lift. All upper body. All the time. I’ve done a lot of soul searching, and I’m pretty sure that I like to hit the gym for two reasons. First, I want to recapture the masculinity that I basked in during my sole year of high school football (quickly followed by a decision to quit due to a lack of toughness). Second, I am desperate to stop looking like Leonard Hofstadter.

Regardless of whether I’ve accomplished either of those things, hitting the weights is still a great ego boost. For this reason, every time my mother mentioned to me how difficult her “barre fitness class” was throughout my high school years, I met her declaration with an eye roll and a scoff. A barre workout, as it was explained to me, utilizes small twitch movements to target leg and core muscles without weights. Small movements? No weights? How hard could it be—especially for a beefcake like myself?

Turns out, very hard.

Here at Washington University, we are fortunate enough to have access to the Sumers Recreation Center and the fitness classes that come with it. This includes a weekly barre session.

A few friends of mine recently began attending the class. Just like my mom, they couldn’t stop talking about how hard it was and how sore it made your lower body.

When I told to them that my entire life has just been one massive missed leg day, they suggested that I join them. I readily agreed. A big guy like me? There was no way that a ballet-based class could ever break me down. After convincing two of my other male friends to attend with me (so that I wouldn’t be the lone dude in the class), I felt ready to go. We would stroll out of that studio like Dwayne Johnson, Vin Diesel and some other overly manly guy slowly walking away from an exploding car. It would be easy and, more importantly, would show my mom that she isn’t so tough.

I started watching YouTube videos to prepare. Five minutes into the first video, I realized that I may have overestimated myself. These ladies did simple exercises with such repetition and succession that it made my glutes hurt just looking at it.

Doing a quarter squat once isn’t hard, but doing it for the 137th time sounded like death. My odds weren’t looking good.

At this point, however, I was in too deep. The same inflated sense of masculinity that had originally made me think that I could do the class kept me from preemptively throwing in the towel. I would do the class, and I would either prove a point or learn a lesson.

When the class began, my twig legs and nonexistent abs cried out to me for forsaking them. I could only respond by white-knuckling the ballet bar and trying not to look like I was in a tremendous amount of pain.

As the class progressed, things (not surprisingly) didn’t get easier. We moved from more general exercises like squats to ones that targeted individual muscles. When the teacher came to me and told me to move my leg further to one side, I politely told to her that I am barely able to bend down and touch my knees (let alone my toes). If I attempted to do what she was she was requesting, I would be the first person ever to leave her class with the assistance of paramedics and a stretcher.

To an outside observer, what we were doing probably would not look too hard; this is why I did not immediately run away screaming when I saw those YouTube videos. The exercises consisted of nothing more than a large twitch, repeated over and over again. In reality, however, I think that it would be fair to assume that no one but the instructor was having an easy time in the class (and that’s because she wasn’t even doing the exercises). Both during and in the days after the ball-busting, one-hour session, I wondered to myself if a college football team would be able to successfully complete the class.

As my friends and I walked (or limped) out of the studio, I am almost certain that we did not look cool while doing so. Regardless of this, I undoubtedly felt a sense of accomplishment as we left; perhaps I was patting myself on the back too much for supposedly overcoming my inflated, self-inflicted sense of pride, but I am positive that the class helped me in multiple ways.

First and foremost, it gave me a good cardio and strength workout, simultaneously.

Second, it opened my eyes to a new type of exercise that I was not previously tuned in to.

Third and most importantly, it allowed me to call my mom and, much to her delight, tell her that her 6-foot, 200-pound son was unable to easily complete a feat of athleticism that she considers part of her weekly routine.

To me, that sounds like a lot to check off in a one-hour session.