Bare Barre


I recently made the realization that I have not so much as gone to the bathroom alone in the past two years.  I also realized I was not sure where my butt ended and my thigh began – and nobody wants a buthigh.

So after some contemplating of how I can find a way to be alone for a few hours a week while also dealing with the whole buthigh situation, I decided to head on over to the place goddesses are born:  Barre 3.  I’m pretty sure Jennifer Lawrence works out there.

I started on a Monday.  I was ready.  I sweat and the shakes came on strong.  I was a beast.  Proud and mighty.  With 5 minutes left I wondered what was on my shirt.  I looked closer…it was the label.  My shirt wasn’t just on backwards, but also inside out.  I am the coolest.

On Friday I packed my bag of clothes while I was shooing my kids out the door.  A few hours later as I drove to Barre 3, I realized I forgot my shirt at home.  So, like any regular woman would do, I stopped at Target and grabbed the first black shirt I could nab from the active wear department.  I dodged into the dressing room, changed, and arrived 4 minutes late for class…shifting right into warrior three.

And then I saw it as I stood tall and mighty with my arms and leg extended.  I saw the flash of white in the mirror.  “No!” gasped from my lips.  There in the mirror staring back at me was the creamy white flesh that had not seen the light of day in 10+ years.  Flesh that was hidden by 50’s style one-piece swimsuits much before they were in style.  The shirt I had nabbed at Target was only $8 for a reason.  The sides of this long tunic were connected by only a few stitches under the arm pits.   Not so much a shirt as it was flaps and a neck hole.

I thought about just walking out, and never returning.  But I am not a quitter, so I did what any cool 30-something lady would do:  I attempted to tuck it tightly into my high waisted yoga pants.  It was so sexy.  Clumps of material pulled taut into pants that nearly met the bottom of my sports bra.  But even with this, any reach to the side or bend to the right or left exposed a scream of flesh to all onlookers.  It was naturally the best ab workout of my life, because I sucked in for a full hour.

I walked to the locker room with the hope that my sense of humor would prevail and the other women in the class would be able to recover from this incident.  I appologized to no avail.  They stared at me.  I knew it, I was the grossest.  But no one had a freaking clue what I was talking about.  No one noticed.  Turns out all these people that come to work out are there for the same reason as me:  for themselves.

And I realized that I belonged here.  Where I had yet to notice anyone who was better than me, or worse than me.  I had not noticed who had Kirkland on or who was donned in Lulu Lemon.  No one noticed any of this.  I had noticed I felt strong.  I had noticed I felt focused, able, energized.  I was doing what I came to do.


I hope you all have a place you feel your best, even when your tunic with no sides is tucked into your highwaisted yoga pants while little pillows of horror wail sirens during your workout.

And if any of you want to come with me to this place where goddesses are born, you can.  I promise, the shirt will not make an appearance again.

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