This workout story is retroactive, which, as we chubby girls know, is perfectly acceptable. After all, we can justify grocery shopping as cardio, sex as calisthenics. giggling as aerobic (3 calories per minute- look it up!)
Several years ago, some friends (whose identities shall remain hidden for reasons henceforth explained) and I decided to check out "spinning" at the Y. Mind you, this was years before there were whole businesses devoted to such evil practices. I had tricked myself into believing that there may be a whole workout devoted to spinning in leg warmers to tunes like "Spin You Right Round". I. Was. So. Wrong.
We will start with the music, which, as we saw previously, is a spot of contention with me. If I were the one running a class like spin, which would only happen if proverbial pigs flew, we would be listening to songs by Justin Timberlake, because if that curly haired youngster tells us to Rock our Bodies, we will most certainly do so, but also because we were being asked to assist him through the break up with the celebrity whose name rhymes with Titsy Spheres.
It is our civil duty to accommodate such a tour de force, because he will most certainly run for presidential office at some point.
Alas, our instructor, who reminded me a bit of my seventh grade gym teacher, minus the angsty lesbianism, had decided that we would be most motivated by James Ingram and Jason Mraz. She was wrong, unless her goal was to encourage me to start wearing birkenstocks and handing out daisies at the airport. If so- instructor one, Kerensa zero.
I must preface this, years later, by insisting that it wasn't me. It Wasn't Me. My friends may still hold the Incident of 2006 against me, but I swear it was that sandy haired man in front of me, the one who thought he was a cross between Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford, but was actually closer to Chewbacca. He may have had beans for lunch, I can't be sure, but as one would only expect, he passed it off on the back row, and I was an unwitting accomplice.
My lovely friends cycled with the best of them, a look of pure concentration on their faces, a driven-ness only rivaled by motocross bikers. I, on the other hand, was the girl you might see who accidentally has walked into a nudist cult. If my bewilderment wasn't enough to tip you off, my outfit might have been. People like me do not own bike shorts. In fact, we find them morally reprehensible. I am pretty sure I was wearing a shirt featuring Don Draper in a superman cape, and a pair of sweatpants. I also did not own a "sports bra", so I was the girl who had flung her melons over her shoulder for workout purposes.
I made it through three cycles a week (though to my mind, was closer to 7,891 hours per day), until the fated day that ended my quest to spin my way to good health.
It began like any other, a day where I hesitantly adjusted my seat, really not remembering (or giving a shit) the correct protocols for such nonsense. I may have been wearing sneakers, although knowing me, it may have been flip flops. People in the class greeted each other by name, while i maintained my witness protection secrecy. The instructor, who I will call Noboobs McAssless, had started her muzak version of some Michael Bolton jam, and was calling out that we were on a "journey, not a destination", and life "was a marathon, not a sprint". I was giving myself a concussion by rolling my eyes to the back of my head, and Chewbacca was in front me in his spandex from 1987 that revealed everything including his hemorrhoids. My girlfriends had begun their earnest workout, the one that would make them sparkle like Edward the vampire, and would make me sweat like a whore in church.
We sat for an inordinately long time that session. Normally, we were up and out of our seats, the pre- drug scandal Lance Armstrongs of the hills. But this time, we were apparently saving it all for the last few minutes of class- the climax of a ride that was punctuated by Kenny G and his motivational saxophone. By the time we reached said climax and leapt to our feet, our lady parts had begun to snooze in our nylon. That joyful moment when our sleeping limbs come to life? Not as joyful when it is a tired twat who has birthed three abundantly husky babies. I am not being literary when I say that those parts weep. They weep delightfully warm piss.
I hauled myself to a standing position, after squeezing my crotch on a pleather banana for 56.3 minutes, and my urethra sighed in relief all over my bike shorts. To this day, I can only imagine what it may have looked like to bystanders. Maybe they thought it was sweat, because as I have asserted previously, vaginas sweat. But I am pretty sure they knew it for what it was. The girl done peed herself.
After class, one gracious friend wrapped her LuLuLemon around my waist, and ushered me from the class. (She may have asked for the sweatshirt back, but I am assuming she was okay with me keeping it)
There are a few lessons to be learned from this experience- the first is 1) never trust a class that sounds like it might be an awesome Dead or Alive inspired 80s class, because apparently, they don't exist. 2) Any class that might feature Peaches and Herb songs probably isn't the right one and 3) always bring a sweatshirt, because you really just never know.
To this day, I shudder as I walk past those offensive bicycles hidden in that secret room in the Y. My friends, you may hear them whisper your name as you pass by, but don't be tricked by their appearance. Yes, they are as sexy as the little stationary bike my grandma had stuffed into the corner of her spare room, but don't be fooled. They will drain you, literally and figuratively, and will always be the last man standing.
Several years ago, some friends (whose identities shall remain hidden for reasons henceforth explained) and I decided to check out "spinning" at the Y. Mind you, this was years before there were whole businesses devoted to such evil practices. I had tricked myself into believing that there may be a whole workout devoted to spinning in leg warmers to tunes like "Spin You Right Round". I. Was. So. Wrong.
We will start with the music, which, as we saw previously, is a spot of contention with me. If I were the one running a class like spin, which would only happen if proverbial pigs flew, we would be listening to songs by Justin Timberlake, because if that curly haired youngster tells us to Rock our Bodies, we will most certainly do so, but also because we were being asked to assist him through the break up with the celebrity whose name rhymes with Titsy Spheres.
It is our civil duty to accommodate such a tour de force, because he will most certainly run for presidential office at some point.
Alas, our instructor, who reminded me a bit of my seventh grade gym teacher, minus the angsty lesbianism, had decided that we would be most motivated by James Ingram and Jason Mraz. She was wrong, unless her goal was to encourage me to start wearing birkenstocks and handing out daisies at the airport. If so- instructor one, Kerensa zero.
I must preface this, years later, by insisting that it wasn't me. It Wasn't Me. My friends may still hold the Incident of 2006 against me, but I swear it was that sandy haired man in front of me, the one who thought he was a cross between Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford, but was actually closer to Chewbacca. He may have had beans for lunch, I can't be sure, but as one would only expect, he passed it off on the back row, and I was an unwitting accomplice.
My lovely friends cycled with the best of them, a look of pure concentration on their faces, a driven-ness only rivaled by motocross bikers. I, on the other hand, was the girl you might see who accidentally has walked into a nudist cult. If my bewilderment wasn't enough to tip you off, my outfit might have been. People like me do not own bike shorts. In fact, we find them morally reprehensible. I am pretty sure I was wearing a shirt featuring Don Draper in a superman cape, and a pair of sweatpants. I also did not own a "sports bra", so I was the girl who had flung her melons over her shoulder for workout purposes.
I made it through three cycles a week (though to my mind, was closer to 7,891 hours per day), until the fated day that ended my quest to spin my way to good health.
It began like any other, a day where I hesitantly adjusted my seat, really not remembering (or giving a shit) the correct protocols for such nonsense. I may have been wearing sneakers, although knowing me, it may have been flip flops. People in the class greeted each other by name, while i maintained my witness protection secrecy. The instructor, who I will call Noboobs McAssless, had started her muzak version of some Michael Bolton jam, and was calling out that we were on a "journey, not a destination", and life "was a marathon, not a sprint". I was giving myself a concussion by rolling my eyes to the back of my head, and Chewbacca was in front me in his spandex from 1987 that revealed everything including his hemorrhoids. My girlfriends had begun their earnest workout, the one that would make them sparkle like Edward the vampire, and would make me sweat like a whore in church.
We sat for an inordinately long time that session. Normally, we were up and out of our seats, the pre- drug scandal Lance Armstrongs of the hills. But this time, we were apparently saving it all for the last few minutes of class- the climax of a ride that was punctuated by Kenny G and his motivational saxophone. By the time we reached said climax and leapt to our feet, our lady parts had begun to snooze in our nylon. That joyful moment when our sleeping limbs come to life? Not as joyful when it is a tired twat who has birthed three abundantly husky babies. I am not being literary when I say that those parts weep. They weep delightfully warm piss.
I hauled myself to a standing position, after squeezing my crotch on a pleather banana for 56.3 minutes, and my urethra sighed in relief all over my bike shorts. To this day, I can only imagine what it may have looked like to bystanders. Maybe they thought it was sweat, because as I have asserted previously, vaginas sweat. But I am pretty sure they knew it for what it was. The girl done peed herself.
After class, one gracious friend wrapped her LuLuLemon around my waist, and ushered me from the class. (She may have asked for the sweatshirt back, but I am assuming she was okay with me keeping it)
There are a few lessons to be learned from this experience- the first is 1) never trust a class that sounds like it might be an awesome Dead or Alive inspired 80s class, because apparently, they don't exist. 2) Any class that might feature Peaches and Herb songs probably isn't the right one and 3) always bring a sweatshirt, because you really just never know.
To this day, I shudder as I walk past those offensive bicycles hidden in that secret room in the Y. My friends, you may hear them whisper your name as you pass by, but don't be tricked by their appearance. Yes, they are as sexy as the little stationary bike my grandma had stuffed into the corner of her spare room, but don't be fooled. They will drain you, literally and figuratively, and will always be the last man standing.
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