A Barre Infiltration

I've never been much of a girly-girl: I don't know how to do my hair; my coworkers were baffled to learn that I joined a sorority; and I'd choose tacos over pedicures any day. (Also, I chose tacos over writing this blog post on Monday. #noregrets)

Needless to say, I didn't know what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Pure Barre classes. If you've never heard of a barre workout, it's basically where women gyrate at a ballet bar(re for extra pretentiousness) for an hour. This exercise regiment has completely swept the nation, and by nation, I mean upper-middle class white women with big hair and spidery eyelashes. 

THIGH GAP OR DIE.

At my first class I already felt like an outsider. My instructor looked like Kelly Kapowski and the cubbies were packed with Vera Bradley bags. As my XXL Guinness shirt and unpainted toenails led me into the workout room, lined with strappy crisscrossy tanks and sleek ponytails, I felt like a 90's sitcom supporting character who had a good heart, but grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and wore vests on top of flannel.

Of course I understand that this class is expensive, and therefore is marketed toward the future generation of velour Juicy Couture sweatsuit wearers. But this program has created a whole culture of designer leggings, $12 socks and logo newsboy caps (Westlake moms, where you at??). The younger girls in my classes look like exact replicas of one another with different shades of neon headbands. I'm hoping to get a peak at the entire fall line of Alexander Wang for H&M in the upcoming weeks.

In the distance, I can almost see a time when this hat was cool.

There was a woman in my class a few days ago that was in full makeup, a flowy top alla Body Central, and she was covered in what could only be described as Charming Charlie vomit. I wasn't sure if she was going out or working out. (Or maybe she was on a time crunch to make it to West 6th after some thigh burners.) Now, every woman has the right to feel beautiful.... or masculine, or smart or strong or whatever it is that they want to feel. But, as Beyonce Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says, "We raise girls to see each other as competitors." This competition is an every day event: with clothes, with our bodies, and with boys. The gym was my one safe place from this ever-apparent rivalry. When I'm next to you, I want to be competing with your squats, not your winged eyeliner game.

Every logical fiber of my being told me to get my untoned butt back to Ballin' On A Budget 24-Hour Fitness where there's a permanent stench of regret and guys dead lift in jeans. My dilemma is that this is the best core workout my sad abs have seen; I can already feel a difference. So, I'll continue being the token sweaty girl (I don't glisten, I sweat profusely), matching my baggy t-shirts with a shitton of confidence and accessorize with this fall's I Don't Give a Fuck.

Singly yours,
Samantha Single In CLE