What your workout actually says about you

MANILA, Philippines - The landscape of fitness has expanded exponentially in today’s modern world. Exercise is no longer kept behind closed doors like some illicit activity involving sweat and flailing limbs. We broadcast our private fitness appointments as a form of social currency. With the rise of globalized gyms, group class and the humblebrag on Instagram, working out has become as much public spectacle as going out to the clubs at night. Needless to say, your choice of activity (and of attire) is indicative of who you are and if one has any business hanging out with you to begin with.

Just recently, I was minding my own business in the waiting room of a choice yoga/dance studio when suddenly a woman from the just-dismissed class cozied up to me and made light of my scheduled aerobic exercise. The nerve! Aghast, I made a pointed show of Googling “anti-gravity yoga deaths” on my phone. Apart from a robust endorsement from Katie Couric, there were practically zero results of maims or incidents of relevant interest. But judging from the look on her face, she got the picture. I mean, working out is all fun and japes until a bar falls on your face.

Too soon? I digress. Here at Supreme, we dig deep and we presume to explain: What Your Workout Actually Says About You.    

Yoga

Fresh from a level 2 three-day Juju Cleanse, you second-guess the idea of going straight into Bikram Yoga. The fact that you already took the time to brunoise half a lemon into your KOR water bottle made the tough decision for you, it’s the new Goop-approved way of cutting fruit. Tedious but so worth it, Gwyneth endorses.

“Namaste, homies,” you say to no one in particular as you arrive. You settle into your pranayama as the heat comes on. Ten minutes into the class, your yoga pose-nemesis (who, in your heart of hearts, is recognized as your better) walks in with the latest Lulu Lemon Om For All canvas tote. Jenna Dewan-Tatum was just papped carrying the same one in a soot and cashew combination. I covet, you think to yourself and your Zen has flitted away from grasp. If there’s anything inner-peace has taught you, consider useless feelings and make do without. Next thing you know, you’re at home logging on to shop.lululemon.com. Good thing you have the promo code from Goop. Bag envy, be gone!

Crossfit

The first rule of Crossfit? Always talk about Crossfit. Snatching and jerking the… what now? From bemoaning a WOD to an EMOTM workout, pulling up articles about how to do a Russian Twist or a Double Under — you spend entire workdays on Facebook with posts that do not make a lick of sense to 95 percent of your feed.  “10 Things To Love About Crossfit!” or “42 Reasons Why I’m Better Than You Because I Do Crossfit” are perennially available on your timeline. You live, breathe and drink the Paleo-approved Kool-Aid. It’s not called “the sport of Me” for nothing!

You cry virtual tears of blood when somebody says “Crossfit isn’t a real sport!” In retaliation, you hit Instagram with a video of your 500-pound Deadlift and a sick shot of your abs, artfully filtered in black and white. The haters can stay pressed and everything is cool — up until a new article surfaces, making fun of your kipping pull-ups. You live for this stuff and in your book, people can either join the cult of “Forging Elite Fitness” or GTFO.

Weightlifting

The universal response to anything that resembles a challenge or trial: you ask aloud, “Bro, do you even lift?” You spend a minimum of two and a half hours at the gym, three if it is a weekend. Walking around the gym floor takes up most of your time as you surreptitiously glance at yourself in strategically placed mirrors, just #mirin (shorthand for “admiring”) and checking yourself out. Mondays are your favorite gym days because hashtag “mancrushmonday” is free game on Instagram; either as a voyeur or contributor. You look to your guns and you ask yourself, am I #swole enough for the likes? Regardless, you post a photo of your flexed bicep. The caption reads: “Are you a vet? Because these pythons are #SICK.”

The words “meal replacement” makes your mouth water like no other. You take more showers at the gym than you do at home. You decide it is a compliment when you hear from a common friend that your ex referred to you as a “boring protein shake” in casual conversation. Life is summed up in three words: Gym. Tan. Laundry.

Zumba

You have a penchant for distressed shirts and ripped-up tops — only because they provide the subtlest showcase for your intricately strapped (and natch, very expensive) sports bra. It’s the closest thing to achieving your long-time Selena-inspired fantasy of dancing in nothing but a bustier. Sometimes your greatest motivation for coming to class is recently acquired jazz panta. 

In Zumba, J.Lo is your spirit animal except there exists an inverse relationship with how good you think you look, sweating it out to the Latin jamz, and how you actually look. You call it a great hair day when your high pony makes it to the end of a solid samba with nary a hair out of place. You send a quick thank-you prayer to God for inventing Finesse Maximum Hold, then you gather your girlfriends for an afternoon carb-sesh. Work? Please. You ask yourself on the short walk to Jamba Juice, what else are husbands actually good for?  

Barre 3 and Plana Forma

It’s 11:50 a.m. and your boss hasn’t called in the past 30 minutes, your pre-planned midday workout will push through. The excitement is palpable. You barely make it in time for the 12:30 session, good thing you’re only wearing a tunic top and plyometric approved leggings. Like clockwork, you instantly flit into your Pure Barre tank top and shuck off your booties. Shock and horror,  your turquoise socks are from Plana Forma and a small part of you dies. It was a CashCashPinoy promo, you plead to judge and jury. But to no avail — even the one “straight” guy in class is giving you the stink eye.

“I’m not here to make friends!” you think to yourself and pulse on for eight. Back at the office, looking like yesterday’s laundry come to life, you shriek because your p.m. snack from NUIU is stalks of celery served with peanut sauce. Celery tastes like liquid soap and you are deathly allergic to peanuts, two things you communicated to your resident “nutritionist” earlier in the week. As five new reports make their way into your office e-mail, you sigh and begrudgingly get back to work. Someday, you tell yourself, I’m going to install a ballet barre in my living room. Ooh, and a reformer too!