Countless lessons have come from this pandemic so far.

Like how natural gray hair looks great on women.

Or the importance of toilet paper.

Or how staying at home and grazing in the kitchen makes your belly jiggly.

The computer has become a portal to our lives. To work. Family. Friends. News. Conspiracy theories (Seriously? Satan-worshipping pedophiles??). Birthday parties and Zoom get-togethers. Church. And, of course, fitness.

In spring and summer, my daughter Francesca came home, connecting from our kitchen to her job in Manhattan. Each evening with a yoga mat on the patio, she'd YouTube to her exercise classes. So while I would lift weights in the garage or row on my Concept 2 rower, Francesca would mirror some other Spandex-clad woman on the computer screen calling out to do burpees, mountain climbers, or jumping jacks — not an ounce of fat between either of them. One evening, like an idiot, I teased her for doing “sissy pushups,” her knees on the floor.

The next evening, she said, “Dad, you wanna do one last workout video together? It’s only 15 minutes.” I was lifting weights in the garage, was feeling the “pump.” Testosterone clouding my judgment, I took the challenge: “Sure, but no sissy pushups.”

She gave me a yoga mat of my very own, which I kind of scoffed at, and for the next 15 minutes, we jumped and mountain climbed and burpee-ed, Francesca keeping perfect form. As for me, well, I barely made it through, and at the end buzzer, I was so glad to lie on my own soggy yoga mat, drenched in sweat and gasping. (Francesca’s yoga mat was flat, neat, and looked untouched, and she looked like she hadn’t even started.)

“That wasn’t so bad,” I lied.

“Good, then let’s do this next leg workout, only 10 minutes.”

“No problem.” (How bad could 10 minutes be, right?)

The 10 Minute Booty Burn with Pamela Reif started with a gorgeous woman in profile whose derriere defied gravity and had a shape that I must admit I was a little embarrassed to stare at with my daughter present. Piece of cake, I thought. I mean, I would otherwise be squatting with heavy weights on a barbell — of course I can keep up.

It started simply: raising our knees sideways and holding it. Then the other leg. Then straight back. Then up and down.

After an eternal two minutes, my buttocks felt an excruciating burn. I was shaking uncontrollably and collapsed.

Francesca kept doing the exercises as if gravity didn’t exist, smiling while I curled into the fetal position on the soft, welcoming yoga mat, my body listless and burning.

Francesca shouted encouragement over the music, but I was catatonic. She finished the video with perfect form and asked if I wanted to try another.

I quietly waddled inside — each jiggle of my butt flab shooting waves of pain. I was ready to be teased by my wife, but she instead looked at my red, sweaty face with concern and asked, “You OK?,” which was much, much more demoralizing.

Lesson learned: there’s no such thing as sissy pushups.