Spinning the Story

            I have never been a big fan of exercise.  Even in junior high I could see that Phys. Ed. was a lot of fizz and not much ed.  And we’ve had this conversation about my klutziness (click here for a blog blaming it on my vision.  Click here for a blog blaming it on my hypermobility.  Click here for a blog blaming it on my ADD.)

            But one of the main reasons I don’t like standard exercise is because it’s not productive.  Oh, I know you’re building muscles and endurance, blah, blah, blah, but when you’re finished and you step back, there’s nothing there.  You wipe your sweaty face, you blink, and you see absolutely nothing.

            I like to see concrete evidence, a visual accomplishment.  This is why I like the idea of building something or gardening.  You still work hard, but when you’re done—ta-da!   You have something to show for it.

            So it’s only every five or ten years that I forget this policy, and agree to join a gym or attend some ridiculous exercise class with a friend.  I am not beyond being persuaded and apparently I have very persuasive associates.

            I also thought spinning class involved actual spinning.  Yes, I honestly thought that.  I figured some brainiac had invented a bicycle that actually spins—maybe with a gyroscope inside it-- thus injecting some fun into the experience.  Thus, when I walked in and saw stationary bicycles, my heart dropped.  Why don’t they call this Stationery Bike Class?  I mean, of course the wheels spin.  But you don’t.  Not one centimeter.

            And let me ask you this.  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD THOSE SEATS ARE?  Within ten minutes I had bruised my entire crotch beyond recognition.  Not that anyone in particular would be called in to do the recognizing.  I couldn’t believe there was an entire class, pedaling away, oblivious to what had to be dozens of RUINED CROTCHES.  This was nothing but birth control put to a catchy beat.

          “You have to get used to it,” the instructor said, when I staggered away from the bike, wincing in pain.

          Why are people doing something they have to get used to?  I guess you could get used to hitting yourself in the head with a hammer, too, but why would you do that?  It’s like drinking or eating something people say has “an acquired taste.” If it can’t taste good right away, why continue ingesting it?

          On top of everything else, the instructor kept yelling “Push!” into the microphone which only served to remind me of being in hard labor, so that was just lovely.  Obviously that woman had never had kids.

          “You can bring a soft seat to use,” someone said as they saw me limping away from the bike.  Well, too late, now—why didn’t someone say this before?  Soon the coach was shouting, “Come on, come on—you’ve almost burned the calories of a slice of pizza!  Come on!”

          Are you kidding me?  So don’t eat the pizza!  If this is the consequence, you should stick to salads and live pain-free, in peace and harmony with the world.  There’s no pizza in this universe—including my favorite Chicago deep dish pizza—that’s worth this amount of torture.

          There was really nothing more I could do.  Okay, there was one thing, and I did it.  I drove straight home, sat on an ice pack, and ordered a pizza.  I told you, I’m easy to persuade.  

Have you visited my website, lately? You can get there without any sort of bike at all!  Just click here and check out the new music video, WHAT MAKES A WOMAN from my new musical, THE BEST MEDICINE. (Portions of this blog appear in my book, Funeral Potatoes-the Novel.)