Getting Physical

The other day I think that I lost my virginity to the bicycle seat in my spin class.

Recently, I joined a gym. It just kind of happened. I went to the gym office to receive a free two week pass that I didn't plan on using when I was sweet-talked into buying a membership. What can I say? The skinny white teenagers in bikinis looked like they were having so much fun in the pool in the orientation video.

Fast forward to Tuesday. I decided to go with my Aunt Lara to a spin class. For those of you who do not know, a spin class in this super intense group bicycling class. I had first heard about it on some show about celebrity work out trends. I don't know why I, at over 400lbs, though I could take the same work-out class that Halle Berry takes six times a week but what the hell? On the show, it looked fun.

So I got to the class early because I was excited, which was good, because it took 20 minutes for the instructor, who was as big as I was in the third grade, to strap me on to the bike,

"There," she said, stepping back and smiling at me on the bike, "doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes," I lied.

I assume that she could tell I did not feel good, but walked away anyway. My feet were strapped onto the peddles with leather straps. The seat was so high that I was hunched over the bike, and the sharp tip of the seat felt like it was actually in my vagina. Just maintaining that God-awful position was a workout. I was sweating profusely, and those who know me know that I never sweat.

Literally three minutes into the class, I left. I unhooked myself from the bike and walked out. It was just too hard, and I felt pathetic because I hate giving up on something. But I had to force myself to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do it before I started screaming in the middle of the gym.

As I started walking back to the locker room, I became very angry that I even joined the gym in the first place. Everyone was sexy and skinny and cute and young and flirting with each other over blueberry soy smoothies. I clearly didn't belong there. I have never felt out of place waiting for my order at McDonald's or shopping at Lane Bryant. How was I supposed to want to work out next to tall, brown, super muscular topless men in small shorts? The idea made me want to cry.

And cry I did next to a naked lady in the steam room. I guess some things, unlike placing my order for a Number 1 with an ice cream cone and three cookies for a dollar, are difficult to do.