Spin Wars Episode 2: Attack of My Thighs
My summer shorts don’t fit. Luckily I live in Michigan so there is a pretty good chance we are going to skip summer as a whole and belly flop right into fall, so my strictly leggings uniform hasn’t been an issue. But in the off chance the weather is ever above 40 degrees for more than a day, I would like some apparel options.
With an hourly “job” I can only afford to buy either new shorts or enough wine to casually drink 5 nights a week. Casual drinking of course refers to drinking boxed white wine with 2 ice cubes, in yoga pants, usually by yourself, trying to guess your neighbor’s Wi-Fi password so you can sync your iPhone Candy Crush to your Facebook Candy Crush. When I get drunk enough I ride the elevator for an hour trying to make friends with people in my apartment building. If I learned anything in college it was that the easiest way to make new friends is doing alcohol together, followed up by an insincere compliment on an obvious physical trait like shoes or hair color. Needless to say I have made no new friends in adult life.
Right across from said apartment is one of those pretentious downtown gyms where they only offer spin, Pilates, and $10 organic smoothies with some hormone free, grass fed, fruits and shit. I am also pretty sure all the trainers model for Athleta (Gap’s half-assed attempt at Lululemon) on the side. Which I usually hate, but I stole a ton of free class fliers from the lobby, so I am going to put my feelings aside like a single girl at midnight on New Year’s Eve and just fucking go for it.
The last place I took a spin class was Powerhouse Gym down the road from my parents’ house. It was one of those awkward summers in college where one house’s lease goes up in May, and you can’t move back to campus until your new lease starts in August somewhere else. I was the youngest one in the class, everyone else was a fat dad or MILF looking to lose the baby weight and kill some time before she could get back to drinking nine months’ worth of missed white wine. Once you get over feeling of sweating so much you feel like you’re peeing yourself, spin can actually be fun.
When I walked into the spin studio I felt more left out than I did in 6th grade when boys snapped girls’ bras, and a boy went to snap mine but I wasn’t wearing one. All the girls had on trendy spandex tank tops with straps more complicated than a 90’s friendship bracelets. I am also pretty sure none of them had gained a pound since their original weight of 8 pounds 10 ounces back in 1992. I understand that some girls are just naturally super skinny, with crazy metabolisms that make them poop 12 times a day, but I am just not one of those girls.
If I wanted someone to call me skinny I would have to eat only turkey sandwiches with lite mayo every day for at least 2 months, which I actually did senior year for spring break. But after college there is no week long all-inclusive finish line in Punta Cana to look forward to. Now, the only motivation to get you through the Master Cleanse and 60 minute elliptical workouts is a family history of alcoholism and fear of diabetes because you get dizzy at 2:30 PM without a snack. So I have given up eating like a pigeon in Central Park during the recession, where the little old ladies have no bread crumbs to throw because Obama took away social security to make a RoboCop statute or whatever.
From now on I am working out just enough to enjoy guilt-free the occasional endless soup, salad, and breadsticks lunch at The Garden. Just enough to make sure my shorts fit, in case a tornado rips through Ann Arbor and Ryan Gosling visits to do disaster charity work and the only clothes left in the rubble are my shorts because all my sundresses got sucked up like the cows in *Twister.
*Great, great film.