Now, I am no wuss when it comes to working out. I never wear pink t-shirts, and I can hold a plank for four minutes. I've ran a half-marathon against myself. I've got my whey protein intake down pat and synchronized with the needs of my mitochondria. I've eaten egg whites in lieu of anything with taste and gulped down salt-free tuna from a can. I have foregone cake.
However, a few weeks ago I joined a spinning class that nearly kills me every Tuesday and Thursday. I learned fairly quickly that each woman in attendance is there for a very particular reason, all of which pertain to a man who has 1) cheated 2) cheated and lied about it 3) returned after having cheated and lied about it and then proceeded to cheat and lie again.
I heard about the class through a kind of murmur among sweat-soaked women in the locker room. With my curiosity piqued, I finally asked a particularly stoic looking brunette what the deal was. "Yeah, take a number, sweetheart," is all she said to me. Um, OKAY.
"Nadia is killer," piped in a petite woman. "And she doesn't put up with non-compliance. Get here early if you want to get in. And don't be surprised if you throw up after your first class.*"
The next week I showed up 45 minutes early, which turned out to be not early enough. I was informed that I had to sign up at least 48 hours in advance at the front desk. Um, OKAY.
At the start of my first class, Nadia performed a kind of roll call by pointing to each woman in the class and yelling "Why are you here? Huh, sister? Tell us why you are here?" Two months later, I still don't know the names of my "sisters"; I only know them as "Because he's a bleeping bleep!" and "Because he bleeping thinks flowers bleeping mean bleep right now!" and "Because his bleep of a lawyer called to tell me that he is bleeping trying to get the bleeping house!"
When Nadia pointed to me on that first day I made the mistake of answering "Because I ate two blueberry bagels last night!" While no one stopped spinning, it was obvious that I had broken stride. "After 7 pm!" I added. "I ate them after 7 pm!" It seemed to appease Nadia enough and before I knew it we were at 95 RPMs and listening to Alanis Morisette, Blu Cantrell and Pat Benetar.**
I had no idea I was so angry.
But by the end of March I was sure that I was over the imaginary man with whom I had an imaginary relationship with before our imaginary break-up. I was also sure that try as he might, he would never get our imaginary house, nor our imaginary dog, nor the imaginary mink coat he bought for me with his pathetic imaginary bonus.
Nadia keeps me focused and on track much much better than any therapist or hair stylist (sorry, Joey) ever has. Despite the obvious, which is the fact that twice a week I pedal like a madwoman to absolutely nowhere for 60 minutes, these two hours are two of the sanest of my week.
It trumps Yoga and meditation in everyway because LETS FACE IT, when you're angry or sad the last place you want to be is "inside yourself" and the last thing you want to imagine "is a warm wave of cleansing water rushing over and erasing your pain" and the last thing you want to say is "I see only doves and pink ponies having tea parties where I used to see emotional scars."
Nadia's order to Spin Til You Spew is much more apropos. Her class, I think, has helped me work through both my old issues (Regan will never EVER be re-elected, Molly, face it) and my future ones (What do you mean you want to teach the children how to be Browns fans????) It's also helped me learn that raisins have no power over me.
* I did NOT in fact throw up after my first spinning class with Nadia. But I wanted to.
**http://www.fiql.com/playlists/angry_chick_music/
Saturday, May 1, 2010
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