Hurray For Torture!

I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been playing World of WarCraft, I promise (wait, when the fuck did I become accountable to you all?). I moved. Gearing up for the move, actually moving, and then unpacking took its toll. But that just wasn’t enough suffering. I still need more.

So let’s discuss legal torture. Er. That needs clarification because this is just not a political blog. Okay so: legal, voluntary torture on American soil that is publicly acceptable.

You’re probably wondering, “How can this be?” but if you pause and consider, for a moment, all the people who attend Pentecostal and Baptist church on Sundays, suddenly it makes sense.

And then there’s the Bar Method.

The Bar Method is an exercise class. And while church is generally free (though somehow you get pressured into tithing, and not for that “luscious” tax break), the Bar Method is not. So, in fact, those who attend Bar Method classes pay someone to perform legal, voluntary torture upon them. No, no. That isn’t quite correct. It’s actually more psychologically fucked up than that. They pay someone to encourage them to participate in legal, voluntary, group torture. And they pay a lot. It’s like Scientology (hi, Holly), except the uniform doesn’t exactly resemble a Snuggie in Cult Member Red. Instead, it’s Lulu Lemon Athletica.

That’s right. When you attend these classes, they take amazing care of you. The incubu––er instructors often say such things as, “Bring your hips back a bit more––perfect form, beautiful,” while you’re actually thinking “Burning…burning…trembling…oh Jesus H. Christ motherfucker I’m goingtodiehelphelp consumed by flames in Hell being whipped by startlingly attractive and thin demons must return must have their bodies must…” Demons dressed in Lulu Lemon Athletica. And all around you, others with those lean, strong muscles who’ve been drinking this hell water for a much longer time, wear the stylish Snuggie-in-Disguise too…

So what is Lulu Lemon Athletica? It’s exercise clothing meant to last through the Apocalypse (or five years, whichever comes first). Say you’re being chased by Satan’s Hellhound Harbingers of Doom. If they happen to bite you in the ass, that shit won’t rip, and you can get away––for now. But…(index finger tapping your chin)...why…(eyes narrowing)…only if…(eyes widening in realization).

That’s right. You got it. All the portals leading from Earth directly into Hell are in the Lulu Lemon dressing rooms. And what they sell there isn’t super expensive athletic wear that sucks up your sweat while being of such a fine weave that it lasts through the flames of Hades. They sell exercise attire that preps you for your afterlife uniform while you’re still here on Earth! No wonder people work out and guzzle juiced wheat grass. You want to avoid Hell for as long as possible. Except the Devil is smart. He’s conditioning these people ahead of time for the flaying of skin and the weeping and the gnashing of teeth, because those are the things you feel and the sounds you hear at the Bar Method. Over the pumping Britney Spears remixes and the wooden flute yoga standards you sometimes hear a quiet whimpering or a sharp cry of pain, startling you out of position and reminding you of that contract you signed, the one about the studio’s “legal responsibilities” and such. That red pen was rather dark, wasn’t it? And when the room clears after an hour of contorting your body in ways God didn’t create it to move in, the room reeks of more than just sweat. Could that be the slight tinge of brimstone? And if eau d’evil doesn’t stay with you when you leave, the burning muscles, singed by Beelzebub’s touch, does. Leaving you virtually incapacitated. For days.

You want more evidence? Well, I don’t have “evidence” per se, but you can check out barmethod.com. I mean, look at those marketing pictures. We all know from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups commercials that the Devil’s got Madison Avenue’s best working for him. No one can resist the chocolate-peanut buttery goodness of those things, not even the women in those photos. And in comparison to those women, you’ve been Slothful, you cow, with your vile Reese’s breath (eat more, cow! keep your bovine buddies employed!) You Envy their lean legs. Lust floods into your gut, making your stomach puff out until you realize that you NEED THOSE FLAT ABS. Wrath: because you can’t have them immediately; you must work for them, and work for them, oh, you will. You will. It has you running to the Lulu Hell Portal and delving into a Gluttony of fashionable Luon (trademarked combination of cotton, Spandex and Hellweave to soak up all that sweat from the flames). After all, the Devil wants his subjects looking good on the racks––and did I mention they have an actual rack there? Says so right on their website, so check it. Signing up for classes, you anticipate the Pride you’ll feel when other women gaze longingly at your incredibly shapely calves. And Greed? You’re going to do this alone. Don’t tell anyone, because you want to look better than all your friends who are still trapped, doing “mere” Pilates and yoga to tone their Madge-riffically flabby triceps.

But it’s all cool. After two weeks at this, my ass looks Beyoncé-licious in my Groove Crop II pants. Not to mention the litany of ab exercises at 9am Sunday mornings is much better than an actual litany. And, if we are truly soulless creatures, we better make sure our earthly bodies look damn good.