In an attempt to break up the monotony of my days, I ventured out to the gym for the first time in 5 months. I pulled my hair back, threw on my sneakers and checked the class schedule online. Ah, Step and Ab Attack, I could certainly use that. I skipped the one block to the gym (yes, I acknowledge I am shameless for ignoring the gym a block away), hoping to catch the 9:15 class.
When I guiltily scanned my card, I cringed at the thought that the computer screen would glaringly show the last time I went was before I was a “Mrs.” (ok, so I lied, it has been more than 5 months), and the desk attendant would invariably think me a lazy biatch or a sucka for having kept up pretenses and not just cancel my membership. But as I peeked over, I noticed he had a gut to call his own, and didn’t feel so bad.
Scanning the class schedule, I gasped in horror to see their updated schedule squarely states: 9:30 Extreme Spinning. Eff. That wasn’t part of the deal. But already dressed in my gym best, I would not go home defeated. I sifted through my brain for the days when I used to attend, and remembered elderly women filing out of spinning. So, I know I could do this, I quietly amped myself up. Plus, my (used to be fat, and fabulously gay) cousin swears by it, and is an instructor. How hard could it be?
The instructor was kind enough to set up the bike for me - turning knobs and explaining the resistance. I didn’t pay her any mind, as I knew this was probably going to be my last class, and why would I add resistance and make it harder to pedal? Three other women readied their bikes and took their positions, and my instructor turned off the lights. Yes! No one would see me taking it easy if I needed to. She flipped on the Webster Hall music and I instantly understood why my cousin loved the class so much.
We started pedaling easy enough, and I wa
s fine, until she had us getting up and sitting back down and bouncing on the small, pointed bicycle seats. Ten minutes into the class, my quads were fine, but my womanhood started to wish there was more cushioning on those little black plastic thong as the instructor ya-hooed. I saw her shadow fist pumping in the air, as I shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the clock with disappointment, and a tacit comprehension of my cousin’s enthusiasm.
Somehow, I made it through the class, thankful the numbing set in halfway. As I limped home, I realized I had not checked the schedule to see when the next spinning class would be held, determined to return with a jock strap.
When I guiltily scanned my card, I cringed at the thought that the computer screen would glaringly show the last time I went was before I was a “Mrs.” (ok, so I lied, it has been more than 5 months), and the desk attendant would invariably think me a lazy biatch or a sucka for having kept up pretenses and not just cancel my membership. But as I peeked over, I noticed he had a gut to call his own, and didn’t feel so bad.
Scanning the class schedule, I gasped in horror to see their updated schedule squarely states: 9:30 Extreme Spinning. Eff. That wasn’t part of the deal. But already dressed in my gym best, I would not go home defeated. I sifted through my brain for the days when I used to attend, and remembered elderly women filing out of spinning. So, I know I could do this, I quietly amped myself up. Plus, my (used to be fat, and fabulously gay) cousin swears by it, and is an instructor. How hard could it be?
The instructor was kind enough to set up the bike for me - turning knobs and explaining the resistance. I didn’t pay her any mind, as I knew this was probably going to be my last class, and why would I add resistance and make it harder to pedal? Three other women readied their bikes and took their positions, and my instructor turned off the lights. Yes! No one would see me taking it easy if I needed to. She flipped on the Webster Hall music and I instantly understood why my cousin loved the class so much.
We started pedaling easy enough, and I wa
s fine, until she had us getting up and sitting back down and bouncing on the small, pointed bicycle seats. Ten minutes into the class, my quads were fine, but my womanhood started to wish there was more cushioning on those little black plastic thong as the instructor ya-hooed. I saw her shadow fist pumping in the air, as I shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the clock with disappointment, and a tacit comprehension of my cousin’s enthusiasm.Somehow, I made it through the class, thankful the numbing set in halfway. As I limped home, I realized I had not checked the schedule to see when the next spinning class would be held, determined to return with a jock strap.
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