THE CLASS FANTASY HIDING BEHIND "ALO, PILATES, MATCHA & LABUBU"​
​
June 2, 2025
by Mai El Mokadem
You’re not paying for Pilates or just a Labubu. You’re paying for the aesthetic and the access.
It started as a TikTok sound. Three words. Alo. Pilates. Matcha. Said like a mantra. A little smug. A little satirical. Very curated.
The original video? A Lebanese-Canadian influencer and comedian, Kinda Adra, deadpanning the phrase, basically soft-launching her whole identity in under two seconds. It was meant to be cheeky. But now it’s a lifestyle. It’s a club remix. It’s the sound of your friend DMing you, “This is literally me.”
You’ve seen it. You’ve heard it. You’ve probably accidentally become it, or at least wanted to. It’s matching sets from Alo Yoga, reformer Pilates classes you need to book two weeks ahead, and iced matcha in a glass “so aesthetic” you just need to photograph for your next Instagram dump. It’s hair slicked back, skin glazed, and a Rhodes phone case (with the lip treat, of course).
And the wild part? It’s everywhere. In Beirut, it’s the new brunch uniform. In Cairo, girls are doing Mat Pilates in Maadi with a side of ceremonial-grade matcha. In Dubai, it’s basically a personality type. And on TikTok? It’s global. Overhead headphones on.
Matching set worn. Must hydrate. But more than that—it’s a class-coded fantasy dressed in minimalist branding.
It’s luxury disguised as wellness. Aestheticized health. A 200 EGP drink with a green tint and a guilt-free aura.
This isn’t just about liking Alo Yoga or thinking Pilates is a better core workout. It’s about access. The look is clean, but the message is layered. Softness, in this context, requires money, time, and a whole lot of almond milk. Yet, we’re all in. Why?
Because it promises a life where your biggest problem is the oat milk being out of stock.
Where softness isn’t a luxury, but a baseline. It’s aspirational. Unbothered. And just ironic enough to still be cool.
Swirly green Matcha and pilates have become soft-life signifiers. The same way a Chanel bag used to be, or a hair dye and blowout at a specific salon. It’s soft, yes—but make no mistake, it’s sharp. It purrs wealth. It codes for access. It says: I have the energy to take care of myself. I can afford the class pass. I have the time for a Pilates class at 11 AM. I don’t need to hustle.
And now? Even the accessories are getting in on the aesthetic. Labubu dolls—yes, the wide-eyed, pouty little collectibles—have somehow become part of the look. You’ll spot them dangling off gym bags, clipped to car keys, or propped on vanities like they’re skincare mascots. They’re not plush toys for the sake of being plush toys; they’re flexes. Soft, expensive, algorithm-approved flexes. Their presence says you know what’s trending before it trends. That you’ve got taste. That you’re in on the aesthetic—even if it’s just through a two-inch figurine with a price tag you don’t want to admit out loud. Labubu isn’t really about the doll. Just like the matcha isn’t about the drink.
It’s about what it signals: you’re plugged in. You’re curating. You’re living (or at least performing) the soft life, one glazed lip and limited-edition keychain at a time.
In the middle of global recessions, rising costs of living, and endless talk about burnout, this very specific aesthetic—the dewy skin,
the Pilates-toned arms, Labubu doll bag charms, the expensive green juice—has become more aspirational than ever. Not just because it looks nice, but because it feels like an escape from survival mode, and shows that you’re part of a more “elite” class
(even in the biggest of recessions).
Labubu isn’t new. But its glow-up? Very 2025. What was once a niche designer toy has now slipped into the lifestyle aesthetic like a perfectly placed scrunchie—accessory as personality marker. Limited drops, impossible-to-find editions, and resale prices that rival your monthly salary? It’s giving “collectible” in the same way vintage Pollys and Juicy zip-ups once did—except this time, the flex is quiet, and the fandom is curated.
In many ways, Labubu is the modern-day equivalent of what Charm It! bracelets were to 2000s girls or what Tokidoki keychains were to Tumblr-era softcore flex. Tiny, aesthetic, and worn for those who know. Only now, it’s mixed into an iced matcha haul,
clipped to a €200 Alo duffle, and positioned on your FYP between pilates reformers and “clean girl” morning routines.
Make no mistake—this trend isn’t random. It’s engineered. Scarcity, story, and status have always driven desirability. This time around, it’s softer. Cuter. More… digestible. A blind-box dopamine hit wrapped in pastel marketing and TikTok unboxings.
The “secret”​Labubu drops? They’re tokens of taste—marketed like limited Jordans, styled like vintage Dior.
And it tracks. Because every era has had its version of Alo–Pilates–Matcha–Labubu. In the 2000s, it was Juicy tracksuits, Starbucks Frappes, Pandora bracelets, and Kate Spade planners. In the Tumblr 2014 phase, it was coconut oil jars, thrifted flannels, and Glossier balm dotcom. And before that? It was Lacoste polos, yoga studio punch cards, and a bottle of Evian in hand like a status symbol.
Today’s matcha and mini dolls are just the next evolution; same formula, softer packaging.
It’s no longer about being fit, healthy, or trendy. It’s about being unbothered— and being able to afford to be unbothered.
The soft girl aesthetic, especially in cities like Cairo or Beirut, becomes a kind of urban currency. If you’ve got it (or can fake it well), you’re part of the cool crowd. The “clean girl” isn’t just a vibe for your socials; she’s a signal. You’re in on the same aesthetic economy. You shop the same brands. You drink from the same bottle. You speak fluent wellness.
And so even if you can’t afford the full lifestyle, you still reach for it in pieces. The fake Alo top. The knock-off Labubu (or Lafufu).
The home-blended matcha. The TikTok routines you recreate with knockoffs. Because being adjacent to it is still better than being left out of it entirely. Alo. Pilates. Matcha. started as a joke, a viral TikTok sound. But like most good jokes—it’s a little too real.