I recently gave up cable. As in, I turned off my service and turned in the cable box. I held on to the remote for a couple weeks, since I have an extremely difficult time saying goodbye. One could call this my pre-Lent sacrifice several months early (I tend to be early to parties/events, too, but I'm working on that [i.e., circling the block for however long it takes for me to arrive with the masses, or just after them] since I've discovered the whole early arrival obligation of help-the-host-set-up makes me feel less of a guest and more like "the help" and I gave up being in the domestic help industry a few years ago when I got a "real job" that pays less [plus, my Spanglish was lacking]). OR it's me giving into the fact that I should be living under a freeway overpass, with a Ralph's shopping cart serving as my roll-in closet, and my early morning showers provided by homeowners that do not believe in water conservation and have exceptionally green lawns. In addition to my dismal bank accounts (I have three, which would be slightly more impressive if their combined balances would have a number, any number, in front of the decimal point), I thought the lack of television would compel me to do something more constructive with my time, like write, workout, soak up some vitamin D, or perhaps, if I was really bored, actively participate in life instead of live it vicariously through Iron Chefs, dog whisperers, and Real not-Housewives. None of the aforementioned things have happened often enough to make this little "experiment" worth it. I've been watching DVDs where the girl gets the guy/guy gets the girls/kid gets the puppy/Kate Beckinsale gets out of a Thai prison/Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifinakis and Ed Helms get over their hangover, all of which make me lonely and depressed, or reading Craigslist postings (whatever, everyone without the Hallmark Channel and The Nanny marathons does this on Friday and Saturday nights) that make me laugh, and then feel lonely and depressed that I'm not a "BBW," "submissive," "dominatrix," "420 friendly," or "under 30" gal that Craig's friends are, by and large, in search of falling into everlasting, or nightly, love with. I've also been eating more, which, given my financial status, makes no sense. The poor are not supposed to be Rubenesque (great word, learned it on Craigslist = active learning). So to combat most of these issues (except my non-BBW/dominatrix/420 friendly-ness, I decided to make actual and regular use of my gym membership again. To my delight the treadmill didn't break during my run, and since that went so well, I thought to myself, "why not kick my molasses-like post-Christmas metabolism into high gear and take a spin class??" Of course. Why not?
Several reasons why not. Most of which I'll share.
This latest class I indulged in was not my first, mind you. I've taken three others, but for some reason I've never had as vile and, frankly, rude an experience as I did during this last endeavor. My heart races before going into any situation that I see as a potential battle; for example--interviews, signing a one-year lease or agreement of any kind that requires my commitment, dates, sexual encounters, and group workout classes. Nevermind that there's a good chance I'll be in an enclosed space and less than three feet away from a stranger while sweating (applicable in all of the above examples), but add in an instructor with a mic and fast moving body parts, and I get a little apprehensive about what I willingly signed myself up for. I signed up online and picked a bike that was in the far corner of the room, furthest away from ridicule and seemingly far enough away from the bikes that would be to my right and left. Upon entering the actual room, the situation was not as depicted. Yes, I was in a far corner, but no I was not far away from the bikes to my left and right. I was actually cornered in. My only hope was that the bikes that had me cornered would be unoccupied, hopes that were dashed immediately by a Rubenesque (love that word, thanks, Craig) older-something woman, who looked just as pathetic as me, but with proper spin shoes.
The instructor couldn't have been sweeter. She set me up with the gear, the little feet buckets that attach to the pedals for those of us who aren't serious and don't pay $400 for shoes that were meant for spinning, or are just coordinationally retarded, and adjusted my bike to, presumably, suit my body. Her energetic and enthusiastic nature was, at first, reassuring that I would survive my little hour long bike ride. I had no idea that 20 minutes in, I'd want to throw one of my foot buckets at her head, or hope that her sweat would make her mic short out and class would be immediately over as the bikers in the front would try to resuscitate her electrically charged body. I started pedaling casually, to I guess warm up (I was just doing what the people with the fancy shoes were doing) before the actual start of the class, already deciding that my ass and I would not be friends by the time this was over. And then, the mic was turned on, the music was turned up, the door was closed and we were off.
There was no graceful way out, as 30 seconds in, I started to develop a callous on my lady bits. By the three minute mark, my corner of the room started to smell like someone shit their pants out of fear. It wasn't me, but it's equally embarrassing just to be in the general vicinity of the Bog of Eternal Stench because in the eyes of others, I could be the culprit. But the instructor was saying such Zen-like phrases like, "Remember why you're here, in this studio, taking this class, and fight for it. Let go of everything else," and I did my best to transcend the stink. I wanted to turn to my neighbor and say, "well, don't let go of everything," but I guess my brain-to-mouth filter was turned off by the chapped ass I was quickly developing. The only miniscule reprieve I received was when we would pedal standing up, until my ankle would unceremoniously decide that it did not want to pedal while standing and give out from sheer exhaust and put me back into the cement-like saddle. I'd like to be able to say that from the immense discomfort I forgot all about everything else, alas, I did not. I became resentful and angry at the 25-year old instructor's voice, there was no way she could really believe what she was saying. I didn't. "Forget all your worries. Forget what he did to you. There is no try, just do!"
"Wait," I thought, "did she just say, 'forget what he did to you?'" Ahh. Clarity. Her annoying rantings now made sense. This was a girl biking up that mythical hill, away from her heartache while I was desperately wanting to run away from my cooch-ache. But neither of us were going to be successful in this hour. I powered through it, only by becoming numb from the groin down, something that may have been visually apparent given the look I received from the douche a few bikes down to my right who kept looking at me with a concerned face. Brain-to-mouth filter released, I shot back at him with my death look and mouthed "mind your business!" to him. He immediately looked at his bicep and then faced forward, and I felt better, like I could finish the last five minutes of this trip through the Hell Himalayas.
And I did. After a full hour of self-imposed torture, I peeled my nether-regions off of the banana seat, and hobbled out of the room, cold from my own sweat drenched clothing, and vowing never to go back into that room again if I know what's good for me (and my ass). Two days later, physically I'm 95% recovered. Mentally, well those scars are for life.
