If you’re reading this, it’s too late. As I sit here in bed drenched in sweat, I wonder what I just put myself through.
Six hours ago, I was drunkenly shoving a Whataburger sausage and egg taquito in my mouth before passing out with my pants on. When the 8 o’clock alarm went off, I thought to myself, “Nah, man, that spin class my girlfriend signed me up for ain’t happening.” I looked over and assumed she felt the same as she was face down in her pillow. Seconds later, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Get up, we’re going to be late for the class.”
I’m a man of my word so I stood up, put on gym shorts that have never seen the inside of a gym, and tossed on a salmon colored tank top in preparation for my trip to hell.
I knew it was going to be bad. The combination of the heartburn from my taquito combined with the dehydration from taking two shots at last call weren’t doing me well. As I shuffled into the spin establishment, I was surrounded by a bunch of chicks wearing neon Lululemon as I rented a pair of size 11 shoes.
I fast-walked into the class because it started in less than sixty seconds. This mirrored panic room had dim lights and forty bikes in closer quarters than the Heavensgate cult’s mass suicide, which this felt all too similar to. My bike was in the absolute middle of the class. Ahead of me was a 110-pound psycho who somehow had the energy of a hamster on Adderall.
On the platform in front of me was our instructor. This DJ Lance Armstrong motherfucker was wearing a neon green technical shirt and a backward pink trucker hat that read, “LOVE” on it. The second I saw him, I wanted to slap the shit out of the tiny microphone that came down from his hat to his mouth. He had his laptop propped up next to him with only Spotify open.
He immediately started screaming at everyone with an all too positive tone. We somehow found ourselves in a themed class that only played Lil Wayne, Drake, and Nicki Minaj, which was worst case scenario for me because yesterday I made a playlist that heavily featured Dire Straits, Steely Dan, and Paul Simon.
I clipped into the bike and knew I couldn’t turn back. Within thirty seconds, I thought I was going to throw up; not because of the ride itself but because the sausage and egg from the night before were creeping up for some fresh air. I reached for my water bottle and thought to myself, “Don’t do it,” as I was positive the influx of fluid would only cause me to projectile all over the girl in front of me.
Within five minutes, “Truffle Butter” was blasting through the hell hole while these psychos were letting out hoots and hollers like they were at a live performance of Magic Mike. At one point, a girl in the back corner of the class finished one of the circuits and screamed, “Yeah, bitch!” loud enough that I thought she may have been mic’d up like DJ Lance.
Sweat immediately started pouring down my body while I tried to look around the room for any other poor sap that was also dragged there by his girlfriend. I found one dude in the corner who was way too seasoned to be dating anyone in the room so I came to the conclusion he was either dating DJ Lance or he was everyone’s gay best friend. I became jealous of him as I kept accidentally unclipping myself while “Starships” pulsed through my veins.
I looked over and was told, “You know, you’re twisting your foot when you stand which is why you keep unclipping.” In a fit of rage, I considered unclipping both feet, getting off my bike, and tipping her over in an effort to create a domino effect that would cause everyone to fall over while I walked out screaming, “If y’all don’t like me, blow me,” like Eminem in 8 Mile.
Halfway through, DJ Lance had us standing on our bikes while instructing us what to do with the two-pound weights. After half-assing it through the weight portion, he instructed us to raise one of our hands in the air and point towards him with our palms down. It looked like we were hailing Hitler which made sense because just minutes before I was comparing the entire experience to Nazi Germany.
Between pulsing into the bikes and somehow doing push-ups on the handlebars, thoughts of “Truffle Butter” started creeping back into my head while I looked at everyone’s asses staring me straight in the face. I took my towel and stopped myself from gagging while riding on the lowest resistance amidst a bunch of basic bitches doing their own personal mountain stage of the Tour de France.
“When will this end?” ran through my brain when I looked up and saw DJ Lance Armstrong getting off his bike. I thought it was over, but I soon realized he was about to walk around the room giving words of encouragement. The audacity of this motherfucker to get off his bike while I put myself through this hell made me hate him even more. I thought we were in this together, but he disappeared to the back of the room presumably snorting a line of coke in an effort to maintain his positive attitude.
At that point, I had completely checked out. I feared that if I got too into the rhythm of the class that I’d wake up tomorrow in ISIS or being served poisoned apple sauce while lying in a bunk bed at a desolate ranch in Arizona. When we finally got to do our cool down, I took my towel and put it fully over my head holding back tears for how much I hated myself — not because I had a bad ride, but because I was questioning every decision I’ve ever made in my life that led me to this moment.
After dismounting and trying to find my way out of the pep oven, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I felt like Godzilla in the lobby as a swarm of tiny mid-20s single women flocked around me talking about how great of a start the class was to their weekend. DJ Lance Armstrong might as well have been signing autographs for how hard everyone was on his dick.
I got in the car and drove home speechless, never to return. .
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