I went through a phase a few months ago in which I decided that 6 a.m. workouts were the new black. Temporary insanity? Maybe, but I had an excess of energy that can usually be attributed to, like, 7 consecutive shots of espresso.
It wasn’t long before I grew to resent the promise of vom when I ran before breakfast. As an alternative, I once went to a 6:30 a.m. spinning class. Ever since I flew off my Huffy at the age of 10, causing a gravel indentation in my forehead curiously resembling a snake bite, I just haven’t been THAT into the bike. Slim pickins before dawn, though, so I went.
Let’s start with my teacher, mmkay? He was a spastic character whose favorite motivational technique was to whisper, “touch it up!” into the microphone. Touch WHAT up? The room was so dark that I’m pretty sure I groped my neighbor while trying to adjust my seat. Maybe that’s what he meant? It did feel clubby with all that house music. For some reason, he slipped in at the end of class that he was looking to become a more involved father to his two sons, which really threw me.
Given all that, the most bizarre thing to me was the fact that the class was PACKED to capacity. I thought it would be just me and a couple of golden girls who were that committed to a.m. fitness, but people of all ages show up in droves. Since I added weekends to my repertoire, I realized tons of people go then, also.
For instance, this Sunday, I couldn’t get a treadmill for the LIFE of me. I want to start a campaign to make exercising less sexy. Maybe I’ll open up a Krispy Kreme franchise next door? Too obvious? I really need to “touch it up.”