Why I Ditched the Gym for YouTube
I clasp my hands together. I raise my arms over my head. Lift my knee. Lower my arm unit to touch said knee. Repeat on the other side. Soon I’ll be stepping from side to side. Jumping. Lunging. Holding my trembling body in the plank position.
It’s 2019, but it could be 1999 or even 1969. After all, women have obeyed fitness gurus from the comfort of home via vinyl or VHS or DVD for decades now. But there’s something about YouTube, isn’t there? There’s something about having a million free videos available on demand in your living room, or your bedroom, or your office, or even on a platform waiting for a train.
Listen, if you’ve got a problem with your normcore bod, rest assured that YouTube has a celeb solution. Oversized thighs? Get legs like a Victoria’s Secret model. Bingo wings not winning you any jackpots? Try these moves and you can have arms like Michelle Obama. Those trips to the brewery leave you nine months pregnant with a beer baby? Do these five easy exercises and your abs will be as flat as Ariana’s.
Having access to YouTube is like having your very own, very versatile personal trainer — one you can mercifully pause or stop. I should know. For the past two years, I have mostly relied on YouTube workout videos to stay “in shape” (whatever the heck that even means).
Almost everyone I know under age 40 uses YouTube for some physical fitness purpose. Aside from the obvious “it’s free!” factor, there’s the convenience. When you’ve got a phone or an iPad or a smart TV, it’s easy to squeeze in a quick workout — no gearing up and going out required. My brother flows along with yoga videos. My husband does neck and shoulder stretches and physical therapy exercises. I have friends who do YouTube dance classes, strength training, and targeted muscle exercises.
For those who aren’t down with all this modern jibber-jabber, hear me out. The oldies are in abundant supply here as well: the same Jane Fonda videos my mom owned on VHS, the Tae Bo I punched and kicked along with in PE class, the wacky Richard Simmons aerobics I fell in love with during Girl Scouts sleepovers at my troop leader’s house.
I’m partial to indoor walking videos, which allow me to boost my Fitbit step count without venturing outside, where it is noisy and full of dangerous stuff like pedestrian crossings and heavy rain. I’m also a big fan of Pilates, mostly because you get to lie on the floor like a blob. I’ve taken Pilates classes IRL, but they can get pricey and it’s sometimes hard to find a local class that fits my schedule. Enter Blogilates. This Pilates and healthy lifestyle channel has made its founder, Cassey Ho, a millionaire. It also earned her a spot on the 2017 Time magazine list of the 25 most influential people on the internet.
But to hell with fame and fortune. I like Cassey for who she is deep down: an excellent Pilates instructor. She’s basically a nice cheerleader, if you can imagine such a thing. Sure, she can be annoyingly chipper, but no one actually wants a cynical trainer, do they? Picture doing squats while someone glares at you and mutters, “You think that’s actually gonna make a difference? Your body is slowly decaying right before your eyes. Okay, give me one more set!” No thanks.
In addition to following along with her workout videos, I follow Cassey on Instagram because I’m nosy. This is where I learned that she’s much more than a fitness guru — she also designs clothing, draws comics, and plans events. Furthermore, she’s goofy and funny. She’s the kind of instructor you’d want to grab a drink with after class. Another of my go-to YouTube channels is Yoga With Adriene. Adriene, a Texan like me, is decidedly less chipper than Cassey. She’s chill, sometimes wears pajamas in her videos, and has a cute dog named Benji who occasionally wanders into the shot.
She’s essentially the polar opposite of the woman whose “beginner” class I once took in LA. As it turned out, the 20 other students had all been attending this very class as “beginners” for years and were on a first-name basis with each other. To initiate me into this tight-knit tribe, the instructor beckoned me to the front of the room, where I was called upon to demonstrate poses for the supposed benefit of the other students. As she yanked my limbs into increasingly bizarre positions, her “assistant,” Neal, a hobbit of a man in cargo booty shorts, padded around, poking and prodding at people’s spines. I will never forget the humiliation of being put on display as a sweaty, ill-formed pretzel. The kind of pretzel Paul Hollywood would refuse to even taste. Nor will I ever forget the specific curls of Neal’s toe hair.
I think this story illustrates better than any the primary reason why I like working out with YouTube: There’s minimal risk of being made to look or feel like a total idiot.
I do sometimes miss the gym, but the reason I miss it is the very same reason I don’t miss it at all: the shame. That feeling of being watched, or more specifically, the feeling of being seen. The obligation to keep going, if for no other reason than to prove to all the hunks and babes that you’re not some noodle-armed, wheezing wimp. It may not be emotionally healthy, but being judged by people who are better-looking than you can serve as pretty solid motivation to do another mile on the treadmill. Forget Planet Fitness’ whole “judgment-free zone” spiel; isn’t shame kind of the point?
The first gym I ever had the misfortune to visit was tucked away in a tiny strip mall near a Texas neighborhood where we used to live. My dad took my brothers there so that they could lift heavy objects, a task that would supposedly improve their baseball skills. I only tagged along a couple of times, and not because I was invited. From the get-go, it was clear that this place wasn’t for me. This was no Equinox or LA Fitness. This place was dark and dusty and crammed haphazardly with old equipment. When I made the mistake of breathing through my mouth, I was left with a metallic aftertaste, as though I’d bitten my tongue, drawing blood. This gym was usually devoid of life, save for the occasional big sweaty muscle man with pink arm skin. The kind of man who grunted loudly and took sloppy swigs from gallon milk jugs filled with water. I only went to this gym a couple of times before deciding that fitness wasn’t for me. I’d much rather stay home and watch Maury and make collages and eat Doritos.
It was a couple of years before I set foot in another gym. At the behest of her physical therapist, my 70-something grandma had signed up for a membership to a women’s-only fitness club. She had a few guest passes to give away, and my mom and I became the lucky recipients. One languorous summer afternoon, we decided to cash in on our windfall. Although this gym was also located in a dingy strip mall, it was air-conditioned and it did not smell like pastrami. Even better, it was brimming with high-tech passive exercise machines on which you either lay down or placed part of your body. Each machine then vibrated for a set amount of time. Once the jiggling stopped, the exercise was officially complete and you could walk away confident that you looked as toned and sexy as Britney Spears in her “I’m a Slave 4 U” video. No sweat, no effort. Maybe fitness was for me after all.
On the way home, our clunky Chrysler LeBaron convertible must’ve overheard us congratulating ourselves. Disgusted by our hubris, this humble car seized the opportunity for a teachable moment. Two miles from home, in the middle of nowhere, the engine died. This was 2004; we did not have a cellphone. The sun sweltered overhead. It was the height of summer and a hundred degrees, easy. We got out of the car, looked at the fields, the cows, the nothing, the no one. Our only option was to walk. Actual, active exercise. And the gods, oh how they laughed.
In my final year of high school, my small Texas town finally got a decent, normal gym. It was located in the old Walmart building, which had been converted into (surprise, surprise!) a strip mall. This magical place featured state-of-the-art equipment, bright overhead lights, and a sound system that blasted Top 40 hits. Women and men mixed here, like it was the 21st century. But in this coed, public space, I was handed a new concern. With boys from school milling about, it was vital to look both attractive and sporty, stylish and comfortable. I needed to look as though sweating my ass off on an elliptical was the most natural and joyful thing in the world.
The thing I like about YouTube is that it eliminates almost everything I despise about fitness. You don’t have to spend time picking out an outfit, you don’t have to worry about looking like a dingbat in front of hot strangers, and there are no weird smells.
The thing I love about YouTube is that for the most part, it’s just ladies like me, in their living rooms. Fallible. They trip over their words. They mix up their left and their right. They exercise in their pajamas. They have dogs who sometimes get in the way. They teach, but they don’t scold. They lead, but they don’t force. They encourage, but they don’t shame.
I’ve gone two years now without a single gym visit. Does this mean I’m giving up on the gym forever? I don’t know. If a gym opened within a half-mile radius of my house, I might consider it. But then again, there’s the rain and those pesky pedestrian crossings. And anyway, what I’ve learned is that with fitness, there is no destination. There’s just a road that goes on and on and on. And a Fitbit, of course, to count my steps along the way.
Why I Ditched the Gym for YouTube
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