If you follow celebrities with as much gusto as I do, you’d be aware that they are all obsessed with Barry’s Bootcamp: “the best workout in the world.” The company actually trademarked it. Obviously I had to try it, so my moron friend and I hauled our asses to Barry’s at 9:45am New Years day like the raging idiots we are. Here’s a review:
9:35am – Stop at CVS and get Advil and water. Take three Advil, consider a fourth.
9:39am – Arrive at Barry’s, hungover AF. Monsoon of 30-somethings who 100% stayed in the night before pour out of the room and mob the juice bar in an overtly aggressive way.
9:40am – Check in at the front desk, realize I just willingly paid $30 to put myself through hell. Attendant tells me I’ll be on “tred 3,” whatever that means.
9:44 am – Enter room solely lit by dark, red bulbs, not unlike those you’d find at a Metallica concert or S&M themed night club. The instructor, a body builder with a Justin Bieber earpiece microphone, directs me to “tred 3,” which turns out to be a treadmill, after a mandatory high five. Everyone around me starts running.
9:45 am – I apprehensively begin to jog. “Get Ur Freak On” by Missy Elliot begins to play. I think: Jesus Christ.
9:49 am – The instructor screams “SURGE” while doing laps up and down the room clapping. Everyone starts sprinting at speeds 9 or 10. I take my “tred” up to a 6.
9:53 am – I am told to switch to the floor, where I am instructed to get weights and a band. The Instructor then demonstrates some arm band exercise. Everyone nods and instantly begins doing something completely different. I remain immobile.
10:01 am – Back to the “tred.” Small woman with disproportionately strong arms asks me if I’ve ever been to Barry’s before, to which I respond: “no.” I squint to see her face because the room is completely dark. She proceeds to laugh knowingly and adjust my “tred” to dynamic mode. Justin Bieber informs me that I will be “pushing it like a sled.” I wonder what I’ll be pushing and why the fuck am I here.
10:02 am – I want to vomit.
10:11 am – My sweat soaks through the t-shirt I wore to bed the night before. The man in a hat next to me, however, is sweating more. I wonder if he is able to see anything with the dark light and his stupid hat. I wonder if he is blind.
10:16 am – Faces wince in red-lit agony as Justin Bieber walks around calling people out by name. I lay motionless on the mat for long stretches of time. “KEEP IT UP,” he screams. His blood vessels bulge.
10:24 am – I go back to the tred and black out.
10:33 am – I switch back to the floor for the last round of hell. Sweat is all over my body and I wonder if just maybe I am a human Gatorade commercial because I sure AF look like one.
10:40am – Class ends. Justin instructs us to stretch and starts playing “Remember The Name” and I wonder what percent of him is serious.
10:45am – I admit it was an effective, if not horrific and disgusting workout, and physically drag myself to the nearest Starbucks.
Barry’s is a sweat fest. The music is loud. The room is burnt tomato red for no apparent reason. People are really into it, and dare I say too into it. I doubt I burned 1000 calories as they advertise, which is really no one’s fault but my own. Happy New Year, fit freaks.