Wednesday, February 26, 2020 // The Statement
6B

his stability filled me with purpose: a new way to pause, 
a new way to move, a new way to achieve.
I 

spent the past three summers working the front 
desk at Barre3 in St. Louis. I kept the studio sunny 
and followed the morning and evening checklists 
for glorified janitorial duties: mopping the floors, deep 
cleaning the bathrooms, bleaching the weights.
The best part of the job was the complimentary classes, 
quickly followed by overseeing child care. Our studio 
offered free babysitting for members, many of whom I 
got to know as I bonded with their children, who were 
anywhere between 6-months-old and 12-years-old.
I befriended the kids, especially when my shifts started 
falling into a groove, sticking me with the same 9 a.m. 
crew every Tuesday morning. Returning each summer, 
I’d see the same littles, only a bit bigger and sometimes 
with a new sibling on the way.
The humid months I spent barefoot in the studio 
completely immersed me in a deeply physical and 
feminine environment. I became more aware of my 
own body and the ways in which I took up space both 
within the studio and outside of it. I noticed the kids I 
was watching — especially the young girls, still years 
away from puberty, hormones and many rock-bottoms 
with the potential to deeply fracture their relationships 
with their bodies — peering over the wooden door of the 
childcare corner and into the studio. They’d make faces at 
the women, spotting their own mothers and replicating 
her postures.
More and more, fresher demographics, especially young 
girls, are tempted by the vague novelty of the wellness 
industry’s practices. This past August, Weight Watchers 
released Kurbo, an app designed for “adolescents” aged 
eight to 17. In a statement for USA Today, dietitian Sheri 
Kasper said “The problem with tracking foods, as Kurbo 
has its users do, is that it can become an obsession and 
result in control-driven behaviors that can lead to eating 
disorders.”
We’re living in a moment of feverish preoccupation. 
To quote Mariah Carey circa 2009, “Obsessed, obsessed, 
obsessed, obsessed, obsessed.” We obsess over ourselves 
and devote energy to molding ourselves into Barre 
Babes or Cool Girls or whatever else we can, and the 
wellness industry helps us. But what happens when this 
obsession blooms in kids? I’m 21 years old and obsessed 
with redefining my own health as it exists today. I hate 
to think of an eight-year-old feeling the same way, and I 
wonder what my mom would think of what I think, and 
what her mom would think of what she thinks.
B

arre Babe is sexy, Barre Babe is at peace with 
her body, Barre Babe doesn’t exist. Flickers 
of her live in our sticky socks and the moxie 
that makes us put them on, but she’s a caricature of a 
woman who will never be done becoming whatever it is 
she wants to be. We can control this becoming through 
Goop or Pure Barre or Barre3 or anything, really, that 
the wellness industry offers a subscription to, but at some 
point, tomato soup and barre start to feel rigid. We crave 
softness and ease because we want what we can’t have, or 
what we think we never could be.
We don’t want to quantify or compete, we just want to 
flow. So we go to yoga. And we look at our friend, who 
smiles through his sweat as he beams his body down 
with candor, not worried about grace or failure, and 
we’re envious and heartbroken over the years we spent 
struggling with both.
I 

want a perfect body / I want a perfect soul,” 
(“Creep,” Radiohead).
Perfection is overrated, and that’s a hard 
conclusion to come to. It’s hard to spend years and 
money trying to make your body the best, only to realize 

that you’re only ever going to get 
better. It’s hard to get so warped by the 
world of wellness that you can’t stop 
subscribing to it, even when you’re 
about to die. It’s hard to return to the 
person you were before you entered 
this world because she’s gone, and 
you’ve got a workout at seven.
We see a result and we want more. 
We see a new result and we want them 
all. With progress comes obsession, 
and 
everyone’s 
obsessed 
with 
something. So, we go to the workout — 
be it to get perfect or better or even just 
a little bit closer to fine, as the Indigo 
Girls would say.
M

y most recent visit to Pure 
Barre was tough. I didn’t 
want to go, but the $15 
cancellation fee was too bitter to bite. 
My favorite instructor took us through 
all my least favorite postures: We 
hovered our thighs an inch above our 
ankles and circled our hips, we dipped 
our hips side to side in a forearm plank.
But I’m tough, too, and I circled and 
dipped until the end of class, when 
I settled on my back, drinking in our 
stretch like water. I put my hands on 
my stomach, making a point to exhale. 
I let my flesh jut out to round the band 
on my leggings, let myself be soft, let 
myself just be. 
Curling into a ball and rolling up, 
I straddled my legs beside me and 
leaned into each one, heart to ceiling, 
heart to floor. The same woman who 
just made me pulse like a chump in a 
wall-sit against the barre knelt behind 
me, massaging my muscles. She pushed 
me further into each knee, further into 
myself. I moved to the center, crawling 
my torso in front of me, reaching for 
the front mirror as her tattooed hands 
lowered me into the carpet.
I sat up and pulled my legs together, 
reaching for my ankles, my toes. I 
inhaled, my deepest of the day, and 
then I let go.

Arya Naidu is a senior in LSA 
studying English. She is the former 
Managing Arts Editor and can be 
reached at anaidu@umich.edu.

It’s hard 
to spend 
years and 
money trying 
to make your 
body the best, 
only to 
realize that 
you’re only 
ever going to 
get better. 

