I have a confession to make. I’ve been taking this exercise class that’s not yoga.
Not to imply that yoga is simply an exercise class! We all know that it’s much more: wholesome community-maker, de-stress chamber, spiritual study group, magically detoxifying miracle cure, God’s gift to all that ails us. But let’s face it—sometimes a girl just wants an exercise class.
Image from the Pure Barre web site: purebarre.com/
I discovered Pure Barre about a month ago and have been flagrantly eschewing my normal yoga routine (which involves planning to go to yoga about three times a week and almost never actually going) in favor of this refreshingly simple but really fucking hard class, which I generally refer to as “lady exercise.” There are no men in the class, and it’s clearly geared toward women. A male friend of mine calls it “your pole-dancing class” after I showed him a few of the more provocative and ridiculous moves.
Whatever you want to call it, shit is hard, and it works. Here’s why I go to this class: because I want to lose some weight and look better. Here are some sample snippets of dialog from the class:
“Ladies, now we’re going to work on flatter abs.”
“Ladies, now we’re going to work on toning that behind.”
“Ladies, it’s almost swimsuit season.
It’s time to get serious.”
As someone who is used to having her exercise couched in spiritual language (“apply your uddiyana bandha” sounds like more important work than “suck in that gut!”), I am really appreciating the honesty and the straightforward approach of Pure Barre. The truth is, a more spiritually elevated countenance is a nice side benefit of any class, but the reason I make two hours in my day, the reason I pony up $20 for a class, the reason I bother to even lift a finger and go when I could just as easily stay home and watch Girls, is that I want to be skinnier and prettier.
However, I am getting a spiritual side effect from my lady exercise classes—one that I would not have expected.
I used to be a young, skinny, fit yoga teacher in a small suburban studio in the exact same shopping center where I am now taking lady exercise classes two times a week. A lot women in their forties, fifties and sixties would take my classes. I thought I knew everything about the physical yoga practice and would get frustrated if these women wouldn’t soften their knees or bring their feet hip-width apart on verbal cue. Of course, I never acted frustrated, because yoga teachers must always appear to be equanamous. But inside, I would wonder about these women. What was their deal? Why were they here? Why were they paying money to have a younger, thinner girl boss them around? I was often surprised by their level of humility and patience with me, even as I would get frustrated and lose my patience with them (secretly).
Now, I am one of those women. I am forty-one. I am not skinny (not like I used to be, anyway). I have to watch what I eat and exercise every day and I still struggle with my body. No longer do I take for granted that I will always have thin thighs and perfect skin. Sometimes, no matter how much sleep I get or how well I eat or how much acupuncture I endure, I’m tired and just don’t feel like it. These things are very humbling.
The girls who teach my class are in their early twenties. They are tall, thin, beautiful and sweet. They all have ironic elderchic names like “Sophie” and “Esther” and “Nina.” They are dancers trying to make a living in a rich suburban enclave. They probably don’t understand why we, their students, find this class so goddamned hard. But they are patient. Or, they pretend to be.
There is something about this bookmark of the passage of time that I find oddly profound, and entirely humbling.
