There is a fitness studio in New York where women go to scream. Called simply “The Class”, sessions are led by an instructor called Taryn Toomey, who is slim-hipped, and sprightly, a kind of athleisure elf. “Go ahead, get fucking angry!” Toomey will say, and the women before her will beat their chests with their fists, while simultaneously doing squats, because technically they are here to exercise. Some women cry: they jump on the spot and the tears run down their cheeks. Others roll around on the floor, which Toomey had embedded with rose quartz crystals in order to provide “vibrational energy”.
The Class is just one form of self-care featured in The Gospel of Wellness, Rina Raphael’s book about the curious things (wealthy) women do in the name of good health. The wellness industry is worth $4.4tn globally but no one seems to know what that word – “wellness” – actually means. The slipperiness of the term is a boon for marketers. The Class is “wellness”, but the same can be said for any number of costly modern activities: buying a Peloton or an infrared face mask, squeezing a crystal, consulting an ayurvedic healer, micro-dosing hallucinogenic toad venom, “bee-sting therapy”, aromatherapy, past-life regression therapy, buying a “vaginal steaming bowl”, squatting over that bowl to blow hot steamy air up your own vagina.
