Mark Twain on Calisthenics – Push-ups and Calculated breaths

April 14, 1866
Hartford, Connecticut

It has long been my experience that the most dangerous ideas in this world are introduced by family members. It was, therefore, with a great deal of suspicion that I regarded my brother Orion’s recent enthusiasm for what he called “calisthenics.” He had, it seems, fallen under the influence of some health pamphlet which promised renewed vigor through a series of undignified exertions—squatting, stretching, and, most alarming of all, something called a “jumping jack,” which I am certain was devised by an enemy of the Republic.

Orion, always one to embrace a theory before examining its merits, insisted that I partake in this new madness with him. “You must keep the blood moving,” he said, demonstrating a sort of convulsive bending at the waist which I mistook for a medical emergency. I advised him to sit down immediately and take some pie for his nerves, but he was deaf to reason.

Now, I have never been opposed to exercise in principle. I find that walking to the cigar shop suits me fine, and a gentleman who enjoys a good billiards match will develop all the strength he requires. But Orion would not be swayed, and, out of some misguided sense of brotherly loyalty, I agreed to attempt these exercises with him.

We began with “push-ups,” an endeavor in which one lowers oneself toward the ground and then, through sheer force of will, attempts to rise again. Orion managed three before collapsing and issuing a series of groans which he later claimed were “calculated breaths.” I, seeing no reason to put myself in a position that so closely resembles a man being buried alive, declined further participation.

Undeterred, Orion introduced me to “lunges,” which, from what I could tell, consisted of stepping forward as if to greet an acquaintance, then being struck suddenly by paralysis. By the third repetition, Orion had injured his knee, and I had concluded that whatever health this activity promised, it came at too dear a price.

However, I must admit that one exercise did provide a certain degree of amusement—rolling about on the floor like a great, overfed beetle flipped onto its back. Orion called this “core strengthening,” though I remain convinced it was merely an elaborate method of looking ridiculous. Still, I found a peculiar joy in rocking to and fro, much like a rolly-polly bug disturbed from its afternoon repose. It was the only movement that came naturally to me, and for a brief moment, I almost believed in the virtues of exercise—until Orion attempted to rise and required a full minute of careful maneuvering to regain his dignity.

In the end, we determined that calisthenics were best left to the fools and the French. We celebrated our wise decision with a hearty meal and a long sit, after which Orion admitted that he felt much improved. I have often said that common sense is the best physician, and on that day, we proved it once again.