Spun

Oh good god, spinning.

Spinning.

That's some crazy shit, right there.

It didn't help that the cycling studio is this teeny tiny little room -- seriously, I've seen bigger broom closets -- crammed with bikes and quite fit people in biking gear. Oh, and me. And Kravitz, who is fitter than me, but had spent the day eating strawberry creams and watching television and contemplating her belly, so really, yesterday, we were equal.

The class is taught by Kravitz's mean and crazy cousin Tracey. I didn't used to think of Tracey as mean and crazy, but then I went to one of her classes, and got schooled. Now I know.

First of all, I thought the fucker was only 45 minutes long. I got lied to. It was an hour, which really fucked with my head as I stared at the clock while my legs went round and round, round and round, and the bottoms of my feet plus all my toes went numb. That seems wrong, somehow. Must get that sorted.

ANYhow, Tracey's up at the front of the class screaming at us to go faster, ride harder, use our heels, get up, get down, get all around the town and goddamn it, didn't anyone tell her these are stationary bikes? For the love of all that's good and holy, stop this bike I want to get off.

Meanwhile, every time I turn around to peer ruefully at Kravitz, she points, even more ruefully, at her crotch. The thing no one tells you about spinning is that it is murder on the petunia. Murder, I say!

And then, because an hour of spinning wasn't enough, I trotted along to Mean and Crazy's Muscle Express class. Where I got shouted at some more, something about using my abs, lifting weights, I don't know what else, I was too delirious to really make sense of it.

Thirty minutes of that and we hit the shower, steam room, sauna and shower. After which I fell directly into a gibbering puddle of demented exhaustion.

Can't fucking wait to do it again next Thursday.