I thought it would be fun to take a spinning class—I’d seen the skinny bitches at my gym walking in and out of the group exercise room, gently sweating and giving off an odor that I can only identify as the cinnamon and sugar Febreze scent. So I showed up at the ass crack of dawn thinking I would get a piece of the action. Turns out, the following hour served as my impromptu induction into modern womanhood disguised as the single most terrifying workout that I’ve ever been a part of. If you, like me, enjoy getting your self-esteem trampled on by women half your size and twice your flexibility level, take some cues from my horrible, horrible mistakes.
First rule of spinning class—never show up on time.
Nothing paints a big fat “nerd” on your face like showing up to a party (or in this case, a group exercise class) on time. Apparently everyone knows this except for me, who has made it my life mission to learn things the hard way. Just like a party, if you show up on time for your spinning class, you WILL end up sitting in the middle of a dark, empty exercise room, sniffing your pits while the host’s cat quietly pisses in the corner.
Second rule of spinning class—never make eye contact.
Once the spinning class participants (or as I like to call them “the yoga pants army”) start showing up, repeat after me: I will not try to make eye contact with other human beings. It’s like looking directly at a solar eclipse, or looking into the eyes of medusa if medusa was also jacked up on pilates and a quad venti soy latte. Looking into the eyes of any other spinning class participant will not only make you blind, but that bitch can take you down (she will also have raging PMS, sorry). Eye-contact shows equality, and those who know their way around an immobile bicycle are equal to no mortals.
Third rule of spinning class—don’t be a dork and laze-out.
Having heard that a spinning class is the equivalent of a suicide pact between your ass, thighs, and calves, I was under the impression that the best way to prepare would be to play dead. You know, sit on my tongue depressor of a bike seat and trick my body into thinking it was still asleep before I render it useless for the next two weeks. If you’re as good as I am at pretending things aren’t happening when they really are (I’m looking at you both junior and senior proms), this tactic is logical. True spinners don’t use this method. True spinners warm up for the spinning class by spinning. And it isn’t a normal, pretend like you’re going on a summer bike-ride with your foreign exchange student lover Sergio who is also sensitive and can cook type of bicycling. We’re talking a slow, creepy, you’re biking home from a weird outdoorsy one-night stand in your heels and you can’t go that fast incase your skirt flies up and flashes your “come get it” thong. And for Fuck’s sake don’t look at anyone!
Fourth rule of spinning class-- every exercise mob needs a leader.
Once the yoga pants army has their bony asses in fake-motion, you know that it’s time for the instructor to show up out of no where and recreate every presidential fitness test you have ever endured at once. And if you think that you can’t look at the bitches wearing matching lululemon headbands, don’t even think of looking at the instructor (see Rachel Ray meets Lance Armstrong meets Satan). The next 45 minutes of your life will be a blur of incoherent screaming. Expect to hear things like “No one loves you” and “I just met your sister and she is hotter, smarter AND funnier than you” sprinkled in with “yourlifeisworthless yourlifeisworthless yourlifeisworthless RAAAHHHHH” I would tell you more, but I’m pretty sure I browned out for the whole thing. That’s right, taking a spinning class is a lot like doing 5 tequila body shots off of your gay best friend.
Fifth rule of spinning class-- if you can't beat them, keep trying you asshole.
All I know is by the time the class was over, the yoga pants army had left as quickly as they had come and in the same fashion—generally better than me. Most of me agrees with them. I wouldn’t talk to me either if I could crack a walnut with a single thigh muscle. But something inside me changed while I sweat every ounce of water from my body in that cold, dark room: the gauntlet was laid down. Without knowing it, I took a pledge. A pledge to be the bitch to take all their firm, toned, and tanned asses down next week, when I spin the fuck outta them. And if not next week, whenever the thigh chaffing goes down.
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