Being The Big Girl At The Barre Class
Inside a barre class for the first time. (Photos: Lauren Perlstein)
The first time I walked into a bar workout, I did it with arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
“What do I even wear to this thing? Like, a tank and leggings?” I had texted my friend hours earlier, incredulity oozing through the phone.
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“A tank top and leggings is fine,” she replied.
“And, like, those sock things?”
“Dance socks, yeah.”
“Well, do they even sell them there?”
“They do.”
There was no excuse. So, with the grand sulk of a teenaged goth at prom, I slouched toward the Bar Method Brooklyn studio in my blackest leggings and tank.
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The primary pillars of my new health/lifestyle are intuitive eating, body positivity, and rational, sustainable fitness. The “anti” part of Anti-Diet Project means anti-fad, anti-trend, anti-get-thin-quick bullshit. I now know that exercise doesn’t necessarily require a gym, and that a workout is a workout even if you don’t hate it. I work hard to un-link the concept of fitness from calories spent and fat burned. I work out to feel better — not to look like someone else’s idea of “better.”
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So, whenever the topic of barre workouts came up, all my “anti” alarm bells went off. Because, what could be more trendy? In my mind, bar was the engagement workout. It was the realm of the tall and reedy; the lifelong blondes. It was for girls who fancied themselves ballerinas, and me and my thunder thighs had no place in that pretty, pink world. I mean, not that I’d even want to be there, gawd.
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Then, my friend Kelsey Osgood got hooked on it, attending classes at Bar Method Brooklyn. Kelsey and I have more than a name in common: We’re both writers, and we’ve both written extensively about our fucked-up food issues, she most notably in the kick-ass memoir, How To Disappear Completely: On Modern Anorexia. She’s done many more years of work on this than I have and therefore has an even higher bullshit meter than I do. So, when she urged me to give Bar Method a shot, I gave her an earful about the evil, shaming construct of contemporary fitness culture, irrational expectations that set us up for failure, and also FEMINISM. She replied:
“I can do 25 push-ups in a row now."
Fair enough.
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The workout began with loud, pumping music and a simple, knee-raising warm-up. Our instructor, Amy, led the class with a microphone headpiece and an astoundingly upbeat attitude. Like many instructors, she had the carriage of a dancer and the charisma of a cult leader — but a really, really fun cult. Immediately, I wanted her to like me.
“Bring those knees to waist-level, Kelsey!” She called with a smile. OMG, she knows my name!
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Then came a series of arm moves using 1- to 3-pound weights. This, I knew, was one of the criticisms of barre-style workouts. I’d heard other fitness folks say such minimal weight wouldn’t have much impact on someone who’d already been working out consistently, as I had. I thought about that as my deltoids began to light up with heat.
Next, we hit the ground for planks, push-ups, and reverse push-ups, at which point I knew the rumors were not true. My face squished up in effort, sweat beaded at my hairline, and I knew nobody in that room looked pretty or pink. It was a legit workout, and most of us had gone red in the face. That’s when we hit the bar — and the mirror.
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In the weeks to come, I would adjust to the class and discover that while it was challenging at times, it wasn’t hard. Each set seemed to go just to the point where I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, but no longer. Between the instructors’ generous cheering and the rapid pace, the hour always flew by. But, from day one, the mirror was hard.
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Amy told us all to take our place at the ballet bar, anchored to a mirrored wall, where we’d begin a series of leg-shaking thigh exercises. All at once, I saw myself up close and a little too personal: that round face, the meaty thighs, my belly folding into rolls as we squatted and stretched. Here, I was forced to face all the things I instinctively look away from while lined up alongside a dozen other women, all of whom I’d gladly have traded torsos with.
“Come on, everyone. This is the endurance part,” Amy urged as we raised our heels higher and squatted even lower. “Here’s where you really burn up those calories.”
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Quietly, I snapped. To all outward appearances, I kept doing the teeny, tiny, thigh-scorching squats, but on the inside, the rant began: Um, I am not here to “really burn up those calories,” okay? Calories are just energy, not heretics I need to burn, and by the way, there is nothing wrong with my body because, as you can see, I can do just as many fucking teeny, tiny squats as every other woman in this class, so you can just keep it to yourself — okay, ponytail?
Whoa.
By Kelsey Miller
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