The training log for the week included some easy runs, a long run, some strides, then, at the end, hidden in the grey-area of a cross training day, these words,
“i am still lobbying for at least one of my athletes to take a Barre Class. I feel like you, as my favorite ding dong, are my best bet. GREAT FOR THE ANKLE STRENGTH”
Two things you should know about me before we continue: 1) I will try anything twice; 2) I respond well to flattery, especially when it is goofy or borderline insulting… because I am a ding dong, probably. Jenn had found the double-whammy of getting me to do something.
I received the training plan on a Sunday night, and immediately found a Barre class for the very day assigned, at our local YogaPod. Last summer, I was actually a member of this studio, using Hot Yoga as part of my heat training for the Habanero Hundred 50K in August (a race I DNF’d, and am signed up for again). YogaPod is your standard yuppie/hippie yoga studio; it is a sundae of wealthy soccer moms, wannabe yogis, actual yogis, humans stronger than I’d ever seen, bendier than humanly possible, sprinkled with a few elderly clients, and outcasts like myself.
I walked in yesterday to a crowded room of people who seemed to 100% know what they were doing. After a quick glancing recon, I found the needed equipment, minus a yoga mat. Probably, it would’ve been logical to bring a yoga mat to a yoga studio, but as a former (way former, like awkward 8th grade former) dancer, I associate the barre with standing, so, you know… logic fail, or something. The teacher offered me a mat, which I very Britishly tried to act like I didn’t need, because I have this weird thing about not wanting to be a nuisance, and she luckily insisted, because she could probably sense the fraud in my aura. For what it’s worth, I assume my aura, on days of nth level impostering, is the color of ultra runner urine at mile 90 of a 100 miler, and probably as pungent. So, now I have a mat, and we get started.
Remember how I mentioned the room was crowded? We all started facing the front of the room, which would put us sideways on our mats, in a grande plie (sumo squat) position. This is the perfect movement to put you almost exactly nose to butthole with the person in front of you, and causes great concern regarding the proximity of the next person’s nose to your own derriere. Awkward start, but it was fine.
We soon got on our backs, and placed our feet on the barre. It felt very “drunk girls acting like they know what they’re doing”, but I wasn’t about to argue with the perfectly built, and angelically nimble woman in charge. Plus, I couldn’t tell if she was 30 or 80, so I assume she is a cyborg, and that’s extra terrifying. She also looked like a young Lt. Uhura, which means she may know the Vulcan death grip, because who knows what secrets Spock gives up during pillow talk. I don’t know. I don’t watch much Star Trek, so I could be wrong. We used the barre to do what can only be described as a glute bridge on crack, and I felt in my element. I got that boom boom pow, if ya know what I’m sayin’. We did this for a few 8 counts, then did one-legged ones, ad nauseum. Honestly, Barre Class could just be called ad nauseum, because you literally do stuff until you’re about to puke, then you hear the teacher say, “5 (long pause) 6 (longer pause) 7 (longest pause of death) 8″ and it’s over. Sometimes, I hate knowing Latin.
It’s been less than 24 hours since the class, and I don’t actually remember what all we did. What I do know is that my body feels very similar to the day after I got put through a fence by my mare, only without all the fire ant bites. I don’t recall the class being ab-intensive, but my intercostals would say otherwise. My calves are 2” shorter than yesterday, thanks to the excessive use of heel raises used in conjunction with any upper body work we did. I am very aware of my traps, even though we only played around with this weird rubber sheet thing for a few minutes. Shit, the more I type, the more I’m concerned I blacked out during that class and they just beat the crap out of me.
I guess I’ll have to live by my first rule, and go back for a second time to see if it really is a cult. Hopefully they don’t make you drink the kool-aide until your third visit?