Let’s get the obvious questions out-of-the-way. I did not fall on my head as an infant, no one has smacked me upside the melon with a 2 x 4, and I have ruled out alien abduction.
Nothing explains it.
Every time I’ve been to a spinning class, my husband will ask me afterward, “Don’t you feel better now that you’ve gone?” No. No, I do NOT feel better. My ass is sore. I can’t breathe, and I can still smell the guy’s breath in the row behind us. Who has garlic for breakfast? Come on, buddy. If you are going to mouth breathe, have toast.
But it has happened.
I don’t usually drink the Kool-Aid unless it’s laced with vodka. But in this case, I’m chugging it down like Smirnoff Ice. I love yoga, and I never say no to a dance party. But other forms of exercise have generally been a bust.
I tried running. A short Achilles tendon makes that uncomfortable. I started rowing the week before I broke my shoulder in a ski accident, making both of those activities impossible. I’ve complained through Zumba, Pole Dancing, Tabata, Cross Fit, Bootcamps, Barre, and Boxing. I’m an equal opportunity exercise bitch. I’m sure I’m a pleasure to have in class.
When my husband approached the subject of getting a Peloton, he was trying to justify the cost, and I begrudgingly agreed to participate in one class every two weeks to make it worth the expense. We didn’t place our bike in the middle of the best window of a penthouse apartment in Manhattan because we don’t live in Manhattan and that would be idiotic. My husband did not buy the bike because I am in perfect shape and want to document my fitness ‘journey’ on Instagram. He’s smart enough to buy the bike for himself and make no comment on his wife.
Reluctantly, I trudged to the basement to fulfill my twice per month commitment already forming my complaints in my mind. I think I’ll go with, “I just lost two inches of height as my fucking tailbone jabbed up my spine. Is that normal?” I’m still nursing that shoulder injury, so I got some advice and tried a low impact class, armed with my witty retort for the inevitable question from the family, “How was it?”
I fucking loved it.
Not just a little. I’m following people, high fiving other riders, I sing along, and push myself to get better output from the previous ride. I’m unrecognizable. Seriously, follow me. I’m KristineToronto. We can ride together. You’ll likely beat me, but only by a little so we both get a sense of accomplishment. High Five!
The yoga studio is closed. Dancing by myself is no fun after the first seven songs, so I climb on that fucking bike, wearing bike shorts and velcro shoes. Sure the bike shorts make me look like I’m wearing a diaper, but I’m considering it as practice for my 80s, and I’m not upset about it. I could live in a diaper. High Five!
I show up to my basement ‘gym’ in whatever novelty socks I had on in the morning and my diaper shorts and a t-shirt that came free in a box of something. I don’t need to do my hair, brush my teeth, or shave my legs. Fuck, I can have garlic for breakfast, and no one will care. That’s how you do it, buddy in the third row. My instructor still accepts me because he/she can’t see me and I like that. I don’t feel alone, but I am. It is the best isolation exercise around. Judge me. I deserve it. I’ve sold out to the hype and have earned four accomplishment badges to prove it. High Five!
It is amazing how four weeks in sweatpants can change a girl.