A small room oozing a plethora of body odors belonging to middle aged persons attempting to defy death is sporatically decorated with splashes of neon paint upon a black canvas. The saddle of the stationary bikes are being sprayed with toxic and wiped with sandy colored paper towels by the previous riders. Spin class. My newest athletic poison.
Several of my good friends have been attending for awhile and I joined the band wagon. Sixty minutes of intense amount of sweating and crappy techno music that makes my head spin in itself is not normally something that I volunteer for but there is something in this process that is addicting. It very well could be the adrenaline rush but with further contemplation I believe that it is my hatred for the blond bouncy instructor that fills my motivation. Perhaps this seems odd to most individuals but smarmy comments and death stares make the time fly.
Tonight the music was abominable and the instructor an idiot, more so than normally. She raced us through music that if Tipper Gore had her way would have been black listed long ago. Sexual innuendos and satanic sounding voices echoed around the room. The only way to make it through the class was to gazed through the tinted windows across the cardio gym section and attempt to make out the Jeopardy questions. Jeopardy indicates that the hell was at least half way over and when the Final Jeopardy question appeared, I sighed with relief. Only to realize that Miss Bouncy Bike was not on the same time schedule as Alex Trebek. Sprinting towards the proverbial finish line I hated her even more. And the truth is, that I kind of enjoy hating her. I have no idea about her life or her character, but I hate her. And I like it.