I definitely have another 5 paragraphs to write about stupid spin class. If the goal is to stay on the beat of the music, but only 7 super fit front row people can actually do that and the rest of us are out of sync but trying our best (well “our” is used loosely, because I’m not working that hard for anyone), WHY GO SO FAST? I spent one class stomping on every other beat during fast songs, and afterward overheard a woman say to her friend (about me… it’s dark in there and they didn’t realize it was me), “Sorry there wasn’t someone good in front of you.”
SORRY THERE WASN’T SOMEONE GOOD IN FRONT OF YOU. Nice, Soul Sisters.
I will never be a whoo-hooing exerciser. Even at my peak of athleticism as a 12-year-old state champion-winning gymnast, my coaches would chastise me for having zero stamina. I would try to stifle my gasps for air after one floor exercise routine like some sort of preteen smoker. If the coaches noticed, it would land me 10 minutes of jumping rope or terrible sprints between leg lifts and pull ups. And it never worked. My body prefers rest. I’m endorphin-resistant.
Last night I made Kyra’s jerk chicken dinner for 5 yummy-sound-making boys. (Secret recipe shared only with those in her lucky inner circle.) Handsome Bernie drove 2 hours to spend 10 with me and I am loved. I woke up with the birds completely energized and happy, and I mounted that bike with all of the best intentions. But after only 10 minutes of hellll yeaahhhhs from a tattooed 20 year old shouted over frenetic club music and I was outta there. Am I the only nutcase whose mood is crushed by cardio? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why they keep it so dark in there. One shared FUCK THIS look with a fellow cycler, and I could Pied Piper a whole gaggle of moms out of the studio and over to Dunks.
I’ll get back on that bike again. I’ll never love it, I’ll never whoo hoo, and I certainly will never pair skin tight leggings with a half shirt and call that an outfit. The adorable, taut-belly-baring desk girl asked me if everything was OK as I was ripping off the Velcro sneakers (and gasping and sweating) after only three songs. It took every bit of restraint not to say…
“There wasn’t someone good in front of me.”
Left right left right left right LEFT SPIN CLASS EARLY…
I sat down immediately after this leap.
Last night’s insomnia was sponsored by Moth in the Bedroom, Cousins Who Could Not Catch Moth in the Bedroom, and Necessary Confirmation of Death for Moth in the Bedroom. Coffee will be my best friend today as I help Zealot Sister’s kids shove ten days of accumulated summertime ephemera into too-small suitcases and drive from the Cape to Logan airport. Today is my last day making sure four kids have three squares. Today is my last chance to create memories that will outlast the stretches of time these cousins don’t see each other. Today is my third day of spinning.
I’m at it again: the loathsome exercise I burn more calories complaining about than doing. This is my first experience at one of these boutique cycling torture classes and so far I’ve learned that the price of spinning is directly proportional to the volume of the dance track. It’s also darker than a nightclub. A physically perfect, fast-pedaling lunatic guides us up and down simulated hills, encouraging us to risk certain facial trauma to include arm exercises. I fake my turns on the resistance knob.
“Woo fucking hoo, you crazy batch of minivan moms. You just cycled absolutely no where in Dracula’s exercise studio,” I scream-think as I dismount early, too pooped to stay for the cool down set accompanied by base-heavy Beyoncé orgasm riffs. I’ve seen you Soul Cycle sisters on Facebook all sweat-dreamy and thankful. That’ll never be me. And honestly, I wonder what the hell is in your water bottles. Almost always chipper and annoyingly upbeat, at the 43rd minute of group exercise I hate everyone. Replacing venomous retorts to, “HOW WAS YOUR RIDE?” with normal responses requires the strongest level of verbal Spanx for me.
It’s also possible I’m tired. Graduation season with late night parties, umpteen speeches, and too many Chardonnays was followed by a whirlwind trip to the Poconos for Taiwanese Family Camp. Which is totally a thing. A thing that we did. Bernie was their keynote speaker and somehow managed to give a lecture about Plastic Surgery that included only two sets of boobs and one severed arm. Our kids got to see their Dad at his bow-tied, smartypants best, and then we raced to the Cape where Grandparents were waiting with Zealot Sister’s kids for fireworks. It’s been three squares for dozens of people since then, and the occasional wee hour insect hunt and murder.
After this round trip to Logan, summer really begins for me. Theme: get your own damn sandwich. Also, naps. And let’s be honest, more spinning at Dracula’s Rave. Because all of us should aspire to the physique of these fast pedaling lunatics. Left right left right left right left right.
But where would a VAMPIRE want to cycle? — B/Spoke studio designers, apparently