I should have known better. Actually, I did know better, but that did not stop me. I took a Pure Barre class with Pam Friday night. It was a date night, sort of like 50 Shades of Grey was a love story—a painful one.
Pure Barre is Pam’s exercise regimen of choice. It has been for the past couple of years, and she really rocks it, despite being one of the few baby boomers to take these exercise classes that are mainly filled with millennials the ages of our daughters. She loves the workouts, which are based on the principle of using small, isometric movements, accompanied by a ballet barre, a small ball, light weights, and rubber straps, to burn fat, sculpt muscles and create long, lean physiques. Pure Barre, a franchise of independent studios, also works hard to create a supportive community for its devotees that celebrates participation and achievements, having members sign ceremonial ballet barres representing workout milestones. Pam has passed her 250 workout milestone and is well on her way to her 500 workout milestone. I may never get to two.
Every six months or so, the Pure Barre studio in Beverly Hills, where Pam goes to take her classes, has a “Bring On The Men” class to which the regular attendees can invite their favorite member of the weaker sex to join them in a Pure Barre workout. A couple of weeks ago, Pam asked me if I wanted to go with her. I said yes, knowing full well that it was going to be a painful experience.
Generally, when I write about Pam, I refer to her as a saint, mainly because she is. She is also tough—physically and mentally. I do not know if she was born that way or became that way after giving birth to our two children and enduring me, and my quirky sense of humor, for the past 45 years, 38 of them as my wife. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Pam likes the Pure Barre workouts because they are hard, low impact, full body workouts. She literally works her ass off.
Pam and I do not usually workout together, though I have been invited to join her a couple of times. Once for a boot camp class and another time for a series of Pilates classes. Neither was a really good showcase for my talents, though I did do pretty well in the boot camp classes and eventually became somewhat proficient at Pilates. I am a pretty fit guy. I have been a cardio junkie for decades. I spent time doing Triathlons in the late 80s. I have run the LA Marathon. I have competed in numerous ocean swims and bike centuries. I have run with track clubs and swum with masters swim teams. I still run, row and lift light weights five or six times per week. Despite all that, and quite possibly because of all that, I had a pretty good sense of just how tough the Pure Barre workout was going to be and how unprepared for it I was.
I was more than a little apprehensive the week before the class. I adjusted my workout schedule to skip Friday morning and was thankful that I was planning to have breakfast with my Porsche buddies Saturday morning instead of working out. It turned out that those were really good ideas.
Pam and I arrived at the studio a few minutes before the class started. The studio, owned by a delightful 30ish young woman named Jill, feels like a day spa. Its ambiance is soothing. Its decor is soothing. Its smell is soothing. It has the de rigueur ballet socks and workout attire for sale. It has cute little cubbies to store your stuff while you sweat. It has innocuous implements of destruction, including the aforementioned small rubber balls, light weights, and rubber bands. And it has a deceptively pleasant looking studio with mirrors and ballet barres on three walls. It is the perfect place to get your butt kicked.
Pam introduced me to the instructor, Katie, another 30ish young woman with the face and demeanor of an angel, though she wore a microphone on her head instead of a halo. I nervously found a spot on the floor, feeling thankful that I was not the only guy there, feeling a little better that I would not be the only one to suffer. The workout started a few minutes later, and for the first five or so minutes I rocked it, just like Pam. Then the instructor calmly said the warmup, which I survived and felt was hard, was over.
The instructor proceeded to lead us through a complete body workout over the next 45 minutes or so. Pam worked out the entire time, doing all of the exercises really well. Generously, I think I was able to complete 25% of them. I spent the remainder of the time either trying to figure out what to do, how to get my muscles to actually move as the instructor requested, or how to stop my muscles from cramping if I did perform the requested movement. Needless to say, I was shvitzing, not to mention quivering, when the workout ended. I had no idea that three pound weights in each hand could be so heavy. I had no idea that standing on my toes could be that painful. I had no idea how a little rubber strap could cause so much muscle pain. I do now, and I am not alone.
After the workout, we gathered for a group picture, had some beer and laughed at the general ineptitude of the guys in attendance. It was all in good fun, and we all enjoyed the experience. Pure Barre is a helluva workout, one I should probably voluntarily do once in awhile but probably won’t.
As I write this, it is Sunday morning about 36 or so hours since I was Pure Barred. Pam just returned from her third Pure Barre class of the weekend, feeling great, having taken morning classes on Saturday and Sunday. I spent Saturday morning resting at the Spitfire Grill at the Santa Monica Airport, swilling coffee and stuffing my face with a mondo breakfast burrito laden with eggs, cheese, bacon and hash browns. I spent Sunday morning running one of my normal routes, though it took me several minutes longer than usual as I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to flush the lactic acid from my muscles, the majority which still ache. Like I said, I should have known better, but I would most likely go back if I am invited again.