When I became a Pilates instructor in my early 40s, I was living with Julian in New Jersey. I worked in three studios, trying to cobble together a clientele and a steady paycheck. I did anything and everything that I could to get experience. I’d cycled through a lot of different jobs over the decades, and with each one, I had to start at the bottom. Paying dues was a familiar concept, and I didn’t think Pilates would be any different. However, this one particular incident was a bridge too far.

On a hot and muggy morning, I walked into one of the studios where I worked, Pilates Mind & Movement. Ellen Wilson, the studio owner, was jumping on a mini trampoline. I looked away. She was going to fling herself headfirst into the rack of free weights—I just knew it. She wasn’t wearing a supportive sports bra. And when you’re that top-heavy and refuse to harness that heaviness, accidents can happen.

“Hey, can you teach Aaron’s Pilates session on Thursday?” Ellen asked mid-jump. “Somehow, I double-booked.”

“Sure,” I said. It was a nice vote of confidence.

A few days later, Aaron Meyers walked into the studio wearing a long black coat over a black suit and a tall fur hat. And when he removed his hat, there was a yarmulke bobby pinned to the crown of his head. Knotted fringes from a tallit, or prayer shawl, hung down under his shirt. Ellen hadn’t mentioned that Aaron was an Orthodox Jew. Not that it would’ve mattered, but it did catch me off guard. I hoped my bug-eyed expression wouldn’t betray my surprise or be perceived as discriminatory. You can’t be too careful these days.

Obviously, fitness and working out didn’t discriminate. But there weren’t many (or any) Orthodox Jews jogging on the boardwalk in my neighborhood or doing triceps dips on the bike racks in the park. Nor had I ever seen Orthodox Jews exercising in movies, TV, or on Broadway.

Everything I know about Judaism, Orthodox or otherwise, can fit in a dreidel. And that information came from the musicals Jesus Christ Superstar and Yentl. My dad tried to educate my brother and me about our history and culture when we were young. Knowledge and history were my dad’s party drugs. We celebrated traditional Jewish holidays and were dragged to temple every year for the high holidays, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur. As teenagers, my brother and I begged our parents to leave us at home. We were uninterested in anything that took us away from our tragically important lives— sitting around with friends, playing video games, or, in my case, convincingly acting the part of a blind person.

My dad would yell, beads of sweat clinging to his Gene Shalit-like mustache, “I ask one thing from you two, and this is what I get?” As our punishment, we sat in the first row, where Rabbi Stern and God could keep an eye on us.

“Hi, Aaron,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello.” He breezed past me, avoiding eye contact, and disappeared into the bathroom.

When he reemerged, he was wearing what I believed he believed were workout clothes: a white sleeveless undershirt, black suit pants, and black knee socks. He made a beeline for the Reformer machine and lay down without my prompting. I stood behind the foot bar at the end, hovering over Aaron’s feet. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help staring at him. This uber-religious man looking up at me was intimidating. Suddenly, he was radioactive. I moved back an inch—unsure what to do. Then, I remembered my training and asked him diagnostic questions. “Do you have any injuries or limitations I should know about?”

“My lower back is tight, but no injuries,” Aaron answered. He didn’t seem rattled by my presence in the slightest. And why would he? He’d been training with Ellen for years. The weirdness was coming from me. I was making more out of the situation than probably warranted.

“May I touch you?” I asked. “To adjust for alignment. Is that okay?” My question sounded pervy.

“Sure, you can touch me,” Aaron answered. And then he sounded pervy.

After that exchange, I couldn’t stop thinking about accidentally touching Aaron in his neyn-neyn place, his customs, my lack of customs, Jewish people in general, and Jewish sex in particular. Ah!

I was still getting used to touching a man in a non-sexual and professional way.

Not long after I became an instructor, my first male client was an English professor in his 50s. He came to his session wearing loose-fitting sateen running shorts from a 1982 gym class. He was lying on the Reformer with his feet in the straps (which are attached to springs), making wide circles, when one of his balls slid out of his shorts. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I pretended someone was talking to me from across the room and looked away. My only hope was that he’d quickly corral the boys back in the barn. Which he thankfully did. The second time one of his testes went astray, he was lying on the mat with both of his legs spread over his head. I wished he wasn’t so proud of his flexibility. And I waited. And when I couldn’t take it any longer, I motioned toward his escapees, “Do you need a hand?”

Aaron pushed the Reformer’s carriage up and back with his legs while I counted his repetitions out loud. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but teaching Aaron didn’t feel right, kind of like how I felt about living in New Jersey.

Why shouldn’t, or wouldn’t, Orthodox Jews care about their health? Was I judging? Did I have dopey preconceptions? I knew nothing about this community. Happy, Dad?

There was little conversation during the session, which was a blessing. Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, hamotzi lehem min ha’aretz. The blessing over the bread wasn’t right, but it was the only blessing I knew—thank you, religious camp.

I put Aaron on different pieces of equipment, where he proceeded to pull, push, bend, and extend. Fifty-five minutes later, it was over.

Aaron walked back into the bathroom. And I wiped down the equipment to prepare for my next client. Minutes later, he reappeared wearing his long black coat over his black suit and fur hat. Just looking at him made me sweat—it was the middle of July. He stopped and turned to me on his way out.

“Can you come to my house and give my wife, Rachael, and me private lessons?”

“Sure.” I didn’t even hesitate. It was my first such request, and it felt swanky.

After eight months of teaching, I was ready to level up. First, suburban New Jersey, then private jets to private islands with my Pilates magic circle and expertise on board.

When I got home that night, I called my dad. I told him about teaching Aaron. For reasons that now escape me, I thought he’d be impressed.

“Are you sure he’s Orthodox?” my dad asked.

“What do you mean?” I was irritated. My dad quizzed me as if he didn’t trust that I knew what a yarmulke and a fur hat represented. I couldn’t blame him—based on my history. Still.

“I’m asking,” my dad explained, “because the Orthodox forbid unrelated men and women to touch unless it’s with a spouse or a close family member.”

“I knew something wasn’t kosher!” I yelled. We laughed.

“So, it’s odd he’s exercising with you,” my dad continued. “Women are considered temptations and distractions.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said. I thought I heard him removing the Talmud from the shelf in his library. “I have to go.” I’d get an earful of quotes and commandments if I didn’t hang up.

Great, Aaron didn’t consider me a temptation or a distraction. That was depressing. Sinful or not, Aaron hurt my feelings—first, the boys in high school and now Aaron.

A week later, I drove to Aaron and Rachael’s house in Lakewood, a town with a large Orthodox Jewish community. A fleet of Honda Odysseys and vintage Buick station wagons lined both sides of the street. I squeezed my MINI Cooper into the only available space. Red and yellow plastic cars and bicycles littered the neighborhood yards and driveways, including the Meyers’.

I stepped out of my car, clutching various props under my arms. A school bus honked, announcing its arrival, double-parking in front of me and blocking my path. I waited in the street while the bus driver extended the stop sign and turned on its flashing lights. Adorable boys with side curls and backpacks ran out of the houses, coming at me from all directions. It was like the Messiah had pulled up. The kids climbed inside the bus, and it drove off. I continued walking, balancing, and trying not to face plant as I hopscotched around a scooter and other toys to the Meyers’ front door.

Aaron greeted me wearing black drawstring sweatpants and a white sleeveless undershirt like the one he’d worn in the Pilates studio, only this one had stains on it. He had one arm propped up on the doorframe and the other on the doorknob. He reminded me of Stanley Kowalski from A Streetcar Named Desire—if Stanley had a long, full beard and a skullcap.

“Come in,” Aaron said, turning away, avoiding eye contact again.

“Good morning,” I answered, probably too perky for the early hour.

Aaron immediately started up the front staircase. “Follow me.”

There was an air of familiarity that I wasn’t altogether comfortable with. I followed Aaron with a mix of curiosity and vigilance.

Hanging on the wall along the staircase were billboard-size photos of six Meyer children—all under the age of seven, I’m guessing. I have no idea what kids are supposed to look like at what ages. I am, however, reasonably confident that my parents love my brother and me. And when we were kids, wallet-size photos of us were big enough. One picture was of a doe-eyed boy with long, wavy, dirty blond hair wearing a tie-dye yarmulke. I stifled a laugh. I expected to see school pictures of the kids (the boys anyway) at their desks at the Yeshiva and not look like someone shrunk Mathew McConaughey.

To the right of the landing was a long hallway with several doors on either side. Undoubtedly, one of them was the tricked-out home gym I envisioned and expected. Aaron approached the door nearest us and banged on it.

“Hannah,” he yelled. “Breakfast is ready. Please go downstairs and join your mother.” There was no response.

Aaron turned back toward me, “This way,” and then continued in the opposite direction of Hannah’s room. Where are we going? I was already self-conscious about fraternizing with a half-naked Orthodox Jewish man. And now I felt like I was on “Let’s Make a Deal.” Do I want to know what’s behind door number two?

We stopped in front of double doors at the end of the hallway—a dead end. Aaron turned the doorknob and pushed. Why in the name of Moses was he showing me his bedroom? Grisly imaginings tumbled over themselves in my head. Maybe an in-home Pilates session was a ruse. This is an abduction. I’m a hostage. He’s going to have his way with me. What if Aaron’s a member of some freaky Orthodox sex ring? I thought about Rachael. She wouldn’t let anything happen to me—certainly not in her own bedroom. But what if Rachael is also a ploy? What if Aaron got rid of her because he found me a temptation and distraction after all? What if I was the other woman? And now his children were motherless, and he needed me to fill Rachael’s wig.  

My cheeks flushed. Aaron and I stood in his bedroom doorway, staring at his boxer shorts on the handlebars of an exercise bike from the 1970s. The Meyer’s were my first in-home private clients. How could I ask any questions? Or demand answers? I didn’t want to be rude. I was probably overreacting. But then I reasoned that overreacting was better than dying. I was confident I could strangle him using the fringes from his prayer shawl if needed.

Two twin beds lined the far wall, with a nightstand separating them. The sheets were untucked and tangled with the blankets. A Star of David clock and a framed ketubah (a marriage contract) hung on the walls. Standing in the room was bizarre. And I felt awkward.

Aaron pointed to an open door opposite the twin beds. “In there.”

Huh?!

He made his way to the door, and I slowly made my way to Aaron—like a lamb to slaughter.

We walked into a thoughtfully appointed California closet. I couldn’t stop staring at the precision organization. The closet gave new meaning to the phrase, a place for everything and everything in its place. White cotton robes (or kittels) hung on multiple hanging metal bars below rows of neatly arranged flat-topped fur hats. A selection of women’s wigs mounted on Styrofoam heads sat on an enormous center island. It looked like the costume department for the Netflix show Shtisel. It made me lightheaded to be within spitting distance of the Meyers’ religious clothing.

“Will this work?” Aaron asked, standing under a tiny window.

For what? I thought. And then it hit me.

It hadn’t been my life that was in jeopardy; it was my self-respect. Aaron wanted to do Pilates in the closet. His tone and bushy eyebrows were pretty persuasive. It didn’t sound like it was up for discussion.

As far as I’m concerned, the only reason to work in a closet is if you’re constructing it. As shocked and tongue-tied as I was, I wanted the private jet and private island clientele. If this was what it took, then so be it. I was paying my dues.

I turned away from Aaron to gather myself. And there was Rachael, lying on a tattered loveseat, breastfeeding a baby. I’d been so flustered by Aaron’s request that I’d overlooked the mother and child in the corner.

Rachael and I locked eyes. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. What was so bizarre about the three of us—excuse me, the four of us—tucked snuggly in their closet was that neither of them acknowledged we were in a closet! They’d clearly discussed the arrangements before I arrived because no one ever said “closet.”

“Hi,” I said, smiling, trying to avoid looking at Rachael’s exposed nipple.

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” Rachael said. “This is Levi.”

Aaron had told me that Rachael recently gave birth, but he hadn’t said just how recently.

“Maybe I should come back when you finish with the um…” I nodded toward Rachael’s boob. How could she not want privacy? I wanted privacy. 

“That’s okay,” Aaron interjected. “I’ll go first.”

“Great,” I said. I felt like it was some kind of setup. Any minute, Ashton Kutcher was going to come out from behind the shtreimels and the gartels. “You’ve been Punk’d.”

I asked Aaron if he had a yoga mat.

“I don’t think so,” he mumbled. “You didn’t bring one?”

I brought foam rollers, squishy balls, and elastic bands, but no mat. I’d assumed that he’d have one in his tricked-out home gym. I would’ve gladly brought one had he asked me to.

Rachael stood and handed Levi to Aaron. “I may have one,” she said, walking out of the closet.

She returned with a yoga mat. “It’s from that one class I took two years ago.” Rachael took Levi from Aaron and lay back on the loveseat, continuing where they’d left off.

Aaron crouched down on the floor, laying his six-foot frame onto the mat—his feet hung off the end. I watched him shift and adjust, trying to find a comfortable configuration. But it was pointless—the mat wouldn’t suddenly grow five inches.

“So, are you married?” Aaron asked, rolling up from the floor and touching his toes.

Why was he talking? We didn’t chitchat in the studio.

“I live with my boyfriend,” I said. “He’s Catholic.” I hoped it would end the conversation right there.

“Oh,” Aaron said. “Have you ever been married?”

“Actually, I’m divorced,” I instructed Aaron to start his single-leg circles. “He was Jewish.”

“Did you get a Get?” He asked.

“Did I get a what?” I repeated.

“A Get.”

“Did I get a Get?”

“Yes, did your husband give you a Get?

It went on like this for a few rounds, like the Abbott and Costello skit, “Who’s on First?”

I looked up Get when I got home. According to Jewish law, a Get ends a marriage—it’s a divorce document. For those of you wondering, I did not get a Get. My ex-husband and I got a divorce courtesy of the folks at We The People in Riverside, California, for a hundred bucks.

Rachael watched Aaron and me while Levi drank his breakfast. My voice slightly shook while I put Aaron through his paces. I was nervous. I wasn’t used to teaching in front of an audience. And I was laying my hands on Aaron in front of his wife and baby in their closet. I felt like a Jezebel. I was definitely breaking centuries-old laws. If word got out, I’d be stoned at the hands of their congregation. But when I looked over at Rachael and then at Aaron, they didn’t seem bothered by any of it.

Maybe Aaron and Rachael had a good reason for closet Pilates. I just couldn’t imagine what it was. Maybe I was being too rigid. Maybe working out in unconventional spaces was common in Pilates. Who am I to say where people work out? I just wasn’t sure that I’d be able to do my job in a closet to the best of my ability. I also didn’t want to make a fuss or embarrass anyone. So, I sat in humiliating silence, teaching an Orthodox Jewish couple in a California closet.

When my time with Aaron ended, I asked to use the bathroom. He walked me to the back of the closet and into a connected bathroom. The door was missing, and the toilet was hidden behind a half-wall. What?! Was Julian and Aaron in cahoots? Was this where Julian’s inspiration for a bathroom without borders came from?

“I had it remodeled as a gift for Rachael,” Aaron boasted. “It’s not finished; you can use the bathroom in the hall.”

I was still recovering from the Pilates-lactating lounge to hear what Aaron said. And when he didn’t leave the bathroom, I thought he’d stay while I peed. If hanging out in the closet was acceptable to him, it wasn’t a giant leap to hanging out in the bathroom with your Pilates instructor. For a second there, I thought I’d allow it—I didn’t want to be disrespectful.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I squeaked. Aaron turned and walked out.                                                 Only after I sat down did what Aaron said about using another bathroom register. He hesitated to leave because he didn’t think I’d stay. He was waiting for me to walk out.

Back in the closet, I prayed I wouldn’t have to teach Rachael with Levi latched on to her boob. Fortunately, she was alone.

“Ready?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“I don’t want to do this; it’s my husband’s idea.”

It was so honest. And it made me wonder if Aaron was body-shaming Rachael into getting her pre-pregnancy body back.

“Let’s go slow and see how you feel.” It would’ve been easy to let Rachael off the hook. But I wouldn’t abandon ship. I was a professional. A professional teaching in a closet. Never mind.

“I hardly ever work out,” Rachael moaned, lifting her hips into a bridge.

“Really,” I said.

“Do you have any children?” Rachael asked.

“No. I don’t believe in them,” I said, joking. “I get enough with my boyfriend’s kids.” I remembered the wall of photos. “Not that there’s anything wrong with having kids.”

I pivoted. “How’s your general health?”

“Fine, I guess.” Her energy was making me drowsy.  

“How old is Levi?”

“Three weeks.”

My face dropped. “Should you be working out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did your doctor tell you it was okay?” I asked.

“I never asked her.”

I panicked. I wouldn’t have had Rachael do any abdominal exercises had I known it’d only been three weeks. What if I hurt her? That wouldn’t be a good look for me or my fledgling business.

Not long after I got certified, the owner of the Pilates studio in Brooklyn where I worked asked me if I could teach a prenatal class for her. I’d said yes because it was impossible (intolerable, really) for me to say no and admit that I was a beginner. I’d pretended and let my fragile ego overshadow all else. I need the danger of teetering on the brink of disaster, like the safety of unborn babies, before I admit that “I don’t know” or “I’m not ready.”

When I looked up the information, I learned that six weeks is the suggested time women should wait before resuming physical activity after giving birth. It could be much longer after a C-section. I wasn’t about to ask Rachael how Levi came out of her. Instead, I told her I’d wait for her doctor to clear her before we continued.

We exited the closet and walked through the bedroom, passing Levi’s crib. Rachael walked me to the door and stopped at the threshold as if a landmine were in the hallway.

“Aaron will pay you downstairs,” she whispered, turned her back, and shut the door. It was so matter of fact. After all we’d been through, she could have told me to have a nice day. And to trust me to wait downstairs unsupervised was odd. I thought about swiping some of her silver teacups in the hutch to teach her a lesson.

At last, Aaron appeared and handed me a check. “How did it go?”

“Well, Rachael told me that she doesn’t have permission from her doctor to exercise.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll have it by next week when you come back.”

Aaron slammed the front door, nearly clipping the end of my foam roller.

I taught in one of my other studios a couple of days later. I thought about asking Beth, a fellow instructor if she’d ever encountered a situation like the one with Aaron and Rachael. And then I thought, which situation—specifically? Teaching in a California closet? Damaging a new mother’s abdominals? However, after remembering her reaction the last time I sought her advice, I thought better of it.

I’d wanted to know how she dealt with female clients with unshaven legs, calluses, and corns. I argued they created hazardous work conditions, and it was gross. “You wouldn’t go to your gynecologist without grooming, would you?” I’d asked her. “It’s just common courtesy. My clients should think of me as their pilatescologist.” She’d called me intolerant and stomped off.

The next time my client put her feet up on the Reformer and flecks of skin fell to the floor like she was molting, I sucked it up—my disgust, not the skin.

Rachael’s doctor cleared her for Pilates, but my relationship with them deteriorated. They repeatedly canceled without the mandated twenty-four-hour notice and were late with payments. I thought I had to be grateful for the work—no matter where or how it took place. But it’d gotten ridiculous, and three months later, I quit.

Just before noon on a Tuesday, I rang the Meyers’ doorbell one last time, feeling good, feeling strong. I’d psyched myself up. They don’t deserve my hard work and commitment. And I’m not going back in the closet.

“Hello? Hello?” Rachael’s raspy voice blared through a tiny speaker on the wall next to the doorbell.

I pushed the intercom button. “It’s me.”

“I just woke up. Please wait. Or let yourself in.”

“Okay, I’ll wait here.” I didn’t want to let myself in.

Ten minutes passed before Rachael appeared at the door. She was wearing a loosely tied robe. I could see the top of a pale green nightgown underneath. Her long, natural chestnut hair matted against her face like a used dryer sheet stuck on a towel.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear the alarm go off. Come in. I have to get dressed.”

I wondered what she’d been doing while I was outside. And then I thought about Levi’s breakfast. I was thankful I didn’t have to dine with them.

When Rachael was dressed, I followed her into her bedroom, stopping short of the closet. “Why don’t we work out here?” I suggested, knowing this was my last day. “You’ll have more room.”

“Okay.” Rachael lowered herself gingerly onto the mat. Was it this easy? Why didn’t I speak up sooner? Had I gotten used to the closet?

“I’m just so exhausted all the time,” Rachael sighed.

I was genuinely sorry if Aaron was forcing her to work with me. But her indifference didn’t do anything for my self-esteem. Teaching her wasn’t fun—it felt like I was doing math. And it wasn’t benefitting her. I was supposed to be a good thing in her life, but I felt like a burden.

Per my instructions, she attempted to lift her head and shoulders off the mat.

“How’s Levi?” I asked, trying to distract her. “I can’t imagine the challenges with a newborn and your other kids.” And then it dawned on me. I’d never seen the other kids.

Levi started wailing from the crib.

“I’m done,” Rachael resignedly announced.

It’d been less than twenty-five minutes. And even though I’d decided only to give the bare minimum, I felt deflated. I excused myself and went to the bathroom—the one with a proper door and a lock. When I returned to the bedroom, Rachael was in bed snoring.

“In here,” a voice bellowed from the closet. I knew that voice. It was Aaron. And I went to him, convinced I was suffering from Stockholm syndrome.

“We were out late last night,” Aaron crowed, nodding in Rachael’s direction. “At a party until three in the morning.” He may have still been drunk because he was unusually friendly. He set his yoga mat down under the tiny window like always, and I didn’t stop him.

“Wow. Sounds like a successful party.”

My heart wasn’t into it. I loved my work. And I wanted others to love it. But Aaron and Rachael sucked the joy right out.

“My fifty-year-old sister-in-law got engaged,” Aaron continued, holding a plank. “You see, it’s not too late.”

When we finished, we stood in the bedroom side by side, staring at the blankets moving on Rachael’s bed. Her head was buried under a pillow, but her bare bottom was lifted toward the sky.

I cleared my throat and turned to Aaron. “This is our last session. I won’t be coming back.”

Aaron shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”

He clearly wasn’t broken up about my news. His apathy felt like a slap to my professionalism and agreeability. The sleep I’d lost over Rachael’s abdominals had been in vain. First, Aaron doesn’t consider me a turn-on or a diversion, and now he doesn’t care that I won’t be returning. Did I mean nothing to you?!

I left the bedroom, hurried downstairs, threw the last of the silver teacups into my bag, and showed myself out.

You might’ve thought that would’ve been the end of it. You know, lessons learned and all. But several days later, I received a phone call from Naomi, a friend of Rachael’s. She lived in a different Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in New Jersey and inquired about in-home private lessons. I thought the community deserved a second chance. Why should one bizarre encounter spoil it for the whole bunch? I was optimistic that this time would be different.

 

Dani’s writing credits include MGM/UA, Big Ticket Television, Shondaland, Huffington Post, Pilates Style Magazine and Stepmom Magazine. Her debut memoir, “The Girlfriend Mom,” won several comedy awards and was considered for a TV/film adaptation by producers such as Sean Hayes, Eva Longoria, and Seth MacFarlane. Both the podcast Old Broad City and staged readings of selected essays from her sophomore book, “Hello? Who is This?” are in development.