I never thought I'd go to a spinning class. In fact, I was oddly terrified of it for years. I've gone to a local gym on and off (off when I wasn't feeling well) for the last couple of years, with little effect. I'd eat - in creamy chocolate - what I lost. You say vicious cycle? I say delicious cycle.
Tonight I forgot my headphones. Without headphones, I cannot watch tv while on the wretched Trendclimber or listen to MGMT while sailing along on the elliptical. It felt like the time I forgot just one sneaker: there is just no way this is going to work.
But then I saw the sinewy (and pleasantly not-so-sinewy) walking with sweat towels in tow to the spinning room. I have never entered that room. Daily, at 6 pm, the room would ominously darken, and I would hear electronia thumping on the bass. Then, at 7 pm, they emerged, looking mainly like their former selves, except for drenched t-shirts and limp ponytails. They looked...utterly....defeated. I vowed I would never subject myself to that insanity and continued to lollygag around the treadmills.
Except for today, when I realized I had no access to the comforting distractions of television and music, and though, "What the hell?". I entered the room and approached the instructor. She was gorgeous: middle-aged with big eyes and bigger eyelashes. "Can," I started, "people who aren't in shape do...this?" That's all it took. I found a bike - in the back, as I requested - and we adjusted the seat. "How tall are you?" the instructor asked. I said I was probably 6' with my sneakers on. The woman on the bike next to me snorted. I smiled tersely, and chose to decide she was jealous of my long legs. I also silently called her a beyotch, which always helps.
I can explain a spinning class in six worlds: It's a fun sort of hell. You each have a stationary bike with a resistance knob. The instructor wears a microphone and shouts things like, "Okay, we want an 8 outta 10 resistance - this is going to be a BIG hill! Position three!" Position three is when we rise out of our seats (which I was frankly thankful for because those seats are made for bony, boy butts) and "climb" a fictional hill. We are each in charge of our own resistance, so my 8 may be another woman's 4. This is all done in the dark with crazy lights dancing around the room, and to, what I call, steroid music. It's loud, it gets you pumped, and it's exactly what you would never admit to listening to in your free time.
I'm going to be honest: I chose a bike in the back with a close proximity to the door...just in case either my bowels or my glutes decided to conk out. But the hour went by in a flash. I felt invigorated. I felt proud of using my body in such a physical way: after spending months of the couch I was sweating my ass off (and everything else). I gave it all I got: after each uphill climb I thought less and less of my job and stress at work, and just thought more of more of, "Wouldjya believe it, I can DO this!" I came home to Matt cooking dinner, and commenced a thirty minute monologue of how "tough" I was and the strength of my legs. He listened politely while sauteing the onions, and mentioned that he feels like that after a two-hour game of badminton. "Badminton?!" I barked. "You are just too cute with your little badminton! I then belly-laughed.
What can I say: I was feeling the rush - and somewhat obnoxiously.