My much younger and very athletic friend sold me. ‘Stop thinking of it as an exercise class, think of it as a nightclub. You’re always insisting that you’re too old to go to one,” he argued. You’re right, I often wish I could let my hair down in a club, especially since it would make up for some of the more monotonous aspects of motherhood, like asking my teenage sons to pick up their socks and make their beds, incessantly like a broken record. No wonder I feel like making some moves to the Happy House tunes of my youth.
Barry’s is like a nightclub: the studios are painted black with mirrored walls and dimly lit by red bulbs. Everybody sweats a lot. The instructors look like hot podium dancers and the music is loud enough to raise the dead. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, it’s the kind of high-speed physical activity I needed this year. ‘If you’re going to do this January thing,’ I said to myself, ‘don’t be meek, be Ministry of Sound!’
This brings me to my gym kit. I’m not a sporty person by nature, so I always wanted to keep a low profile. For years, my training uniform has been black leggings and a black tank top. I have never had fun with my outfits as exercise has always been a chore. Barry’s has changed all that because it’s surprisingly self-contained: everyone’s too focused on their own resistance to look, plus it’s really too dark to notice if they are.
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