Here’s a story of a fitness class turned incident. It all started when my friend Jesse invited me to try Soul Cycle. Never heard of this phenomenon? It’s a spin class on crystal meth. If you are over the age of 29, you will walk into this joint and wonder if you accidentally strolled into the club. I maybe turned up the hearing aide I don’t have because people kept opening their mouths and no sound was coming out.
I strapped on some robotic shoes and then click clacked into the mecca of rock hard abs and glitter sweat. Everyone except for myself started turning knobs to adjust the handle bars and seat height. I stood there with my arms crossed contemplating all my life decisions. Zac Efron graciously walked over to save me. I couldn’t hear a word he said, but he was fun to look at. He showed me this one knob that seemed important. Something about resistance. Again, loud noises.
He clicked my shoes into the bike and for a brief moment I wondered if this is what it felt like to be held hostage in a hole in the ground. Everyone around me was already pedaling and cheering and generally behaving the way I do on a solo Target run. The crowds cycle buzz was maybe inspiring me to believe in that spin life when in walked Derek Zoolander.
Since the music wasn’t loud enough, he went ahead and turned that techno on turbo blast. Everyone around me fell into formation, ferociously pedaling as their ass cheeks caught the beat. I have zero rhythm so I pedaled at half speed while giving my legs a silent pep talk. I finally got my ass to stop sitting but I couldn’t for the life of me gyrate like the Ariana Grande in front of me. This experience as a whole definitely “got me walking side to side”, but more on that later.
Here is where the incident started to unfold. I figured out real quick why there was a no talking rule. Zoolander had enough words and lady screams for all of us. At one point I heard him yelling at a perfectly sculpted goddess that she had done harder things. Really? Two humans have passed through my vagina and I kinda wish I’d chosen to spend my Tuesday night giving birth instead of this torture.
Fast forward to the third techno beat and everyone was instructed to slow down. Thank God. I finally look like I belong here. Oh. Nope. That’s over already. Everyone’s ass is above my head again. Fuck. I tried to stand again and that just made me want to vomit. So I’d sit and my vagina would say fuck this shit and send my cheeks back off the seat. This repetition continued until I real life felt like I was gonna blow chunks all over Ariana’s ponytail.
I tried to unclick my shoes. Nothing. I tried again. Panic. I looked around and everyone was fucking smiling and shaking sweat from their bangs like a Kardashian. What the fuck am I doing. I need out. Stat. Medic. May day. I kept kicking my feet and praying they would release from the bike. Insert very intense possible panic attack. I eventually just unstrapped my feet from the shoes and left those bitches hanging from the bike. Zoolander escorted me out the inferno and my jelly legs all but crawled to the bathroom to hurl.
A very nice beautiful 20 something brought me water and a cold towel and told me she was going to sit with me a minute to make sure I didn’t die. After I caught my breath she handed me an incident report. Would you mind filling this out for us? Oh sure. My vagina is fucking bruised to bits, but you wanna really dig it in and demolish my ego? Cool beans. Good thing I have a sense of humor.
Did I mention I don’t do fitness? Yea. I get I’m not the norm and I know lots of humans probably jizz themselves with excitement over some Soul Cycle. I mean, I almost died surrounded by a gaggle of super fans. I don’t write all this to bash the workout, I just want all my fellow weak ass mother effers to understand what they are facing. Sometimes we forget about our non-fitness and think we can climb the mountain. I get it. I even got cocky and wore my Fierce like Frida tee to the match. Don’t get me wrong, my mind, heart and soul are fierce AF. I can win a debate like a boss, but my glutes prefer to rest and this ice pack I’m sitting on is a great reminder that I can’t win at everything.
PS: My girl Jesse failed to mention I could get a fucking cushion for my seat and it’s making me wanna go all Harry on her ass.
(This post originally appeared on Mrs. Mombie)
About the author: I’m Alexis, perpetually tired mama to my fuego babes by day and LCSW/doula-in-training by night. I survive on all the sarcasm and caffeine and ramble about motherhood, life and social justice over at Mrs. Mombie. That’s mom + zombie cause negative sleep y’all. The hubs delusionally believes more babies are in our future, but my body is wrecked and I can’t for the life of me do enough kegels to repair the damage. You can find more of my nonsense on Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest.
