Last week as I perused my Facebook timeline, I saw Pure Barre mentioned a few times from multiple people and decided to check it out. Completely thrilled that I may have found an alternative to the treadmill, I decided to schedule a class for the next day. While I was a little put-off by the two and three hundred dollar price tags on the packages, I was less offended by the $10 fist timer fee.
When I entered my zip code on the website it gave me a few locations to choose from, the closest being 25 minutes away. Boy, this better be good. I entered my payment information and was locked in for 7:00pm, Thursday evening.
I have a bit of an anxiety issue when it comes to exploring outside of my comfort zone and when I walked into Pure Barre at 6:45 (early arrival is recommended for all newbies) I was certain this was going to be an hour from hell. I walked into what looked like a cozy little store front and was ambushed by bubbly personalities and smiling faces. These women loved their jobs. Or they were heavy into drugs. After filling out a quick one time waiver and getting the run down (grab a ball, tube and three pound weights) I headed into the workout room.
When I was exploring the website before registering for the class, I watched a video of these classes but for some reason, the large carpeted room with floor to ceiling mirrors and a ballet bar around all four walls was a little intimidating to me. I was told this class was intense and fast-paced so I put my game face on. The room slowly filled up with women who clearly knew exactly what the drill was (hopefully I didn't steal anyone's spot on the carpet) and the knot in my tummy continued to grow. Or maybe I was just hungry.
I assessed the situation while I waited for the madness to begin: a group of uppity girls who were also first timers, a woman so pregnant she looked as if she might give birth on the studio floor, and a handful of women ranging from their mid-twenties to their early forties. I'm confident I was the most out of shape woman in the room.
To avoid looking at other people too long, I decided to sit down and stretch like everyone else was... fake it till you make it. At seven on the nose, this adorably fit and tiny forty-something walked in with a mic attached to her and announced that we would be working out to a 90's playlist (YES!!). All of the sudden the music started and the women stood, so I stood too. Once or twice, Workout Barbie approached me in the middle of complimenting all of our efforts and adjusted my posture or position without so much as a word. I hate being touched but thanks for the help, sista.
I was warned in my briefing that there would be "vocabulary" that I would likely be unfamiliar with used by the instructor, but was informed that I should just follow her lead. Great. After 55 minutes of "low-impact strength and stretching workout that creates long, lean muscles without bulk" aka twitching while in the most uncomfortable and painful positions possible, the class was over. Thirty seconds of deep breathing and a quick wipe down of the equipment and it was over. I had, by the grace of God, survived.
I was immediately sore in the oddest places. My stomach was sore, my inner thighs hurt, and as I was mentally evaluating the extent of the damage, I realized these were all areas I need to tone and strengthen. As scary and overwhelming as the class had been, I felt fantastic afterwards. Although the mom-to-be made me look like a potato and I discovered that I am not nearly as flexible as I once believed, I decided these classes were worth the hellish pain, 25 minute drive and $23 dollar class fee. Round two, 5:45 tomorrow evening.
