Friday, June 28, 2013

Homo goes to Spin Class

It's been over a month since I've blogged. I have many reasons. Mostly I've been busy with stuff:

1. Working, which involves feeding people and trying not to panic and burn myself on the oven door when it gets busy.

2. Moving (a five minute walk from our last place), which has involved shuffling Lisa's countless Rubbermaid containers from room to room between heated discussions about closet space and the (in)appropriate placement of cat paraphernalia.

Our new abode, which we have yet to name, currently houses roughly 150 pairs of shoes, 2 cats, and approximately 0 kitchen tables or chairs...clearly these lesbians have their priorities straight.

3. Various athletic activities. Lisa's big Colorado run adventure (The Transrockies) is coming up in sixish? weeks and she's been running. Pretty much all the time. So if I want to see her ever it has to be either at the gym or on one of her runs.

I like to run, but I stubbornly (and wrongly, according to Lisa) believe that running should be an enjoyable leisure activity. We still run together sometimes, but I refuse to keep running if something hurts/it isn't fun anymore/I see something shiny, and Lisa can't appreciate this lack of commitment.

If Lisa's leg fell off on a trail somewhere she'd probably shrug, strap it to her hydration vest with an overly complicated lightweight bungee cord and continue down the path, hopping on her remaining leg.

I'm just not that hardcore. When it's rainy/windy/cold/might become rainy/windy/cold I don't want to run. I want to bake cookies, do yoga by the heater and watch Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares on Netflix. 

I don't usually get invited on runs anymore. And if I do, Lisa usually abandons me somewhere along the trail with a sandwich to pick flowers and fetches me two hours later.

I wave goodbye, as Lisa trots off into the distance. 

I am an amazing girlfriend who makes enormous batches of granola and gluten free cupcakes and tackles the mountains of compression gear in our laundry room, but I sort of suck as a training partner.

Except for spin class, which is actually turning out to be a successful joint venture (so far). I have committed to attending at least one spin class per week with my woman to be supportive. After all, it's only once a week, and it's an hour in a warm, dry building with unlimited water access.

Lisa is so enthusiastic about spin class that she attends four classes a week. This has more to do with the (straight) female instructor's eight pack, and less to do with spin class specifically. 

Our spin class dates started out on a rough note. The first time I attended a spin class I was slightly hungover. Since I rarely drink, I rarely have hangovers, and I handle them badly. I had been whimpering, moody, and sullen the whole morning, and Lisa was once again wishing she hadn't invited me for a workout. My head was pounding, my liver was aching. I wanted bed.

 I adjusted my bike wrong in the beginning, and the pedals weren't far enough away. The class had already started, and I couldn't figure out how to elegantly get my feet out of the straps. I spent the entire class trying not to hit my knees on my water bottle rack, trying not to vomit, and trying not to slip off my sweat-coated bike.

I barely survived. I wobbled out of the room and didn't move for the rest of the day. Afterwards, I couldn't sit comfortably for a week. I refused to change out of my sweatpants and walked like a cowboy. I have never experienced that level of crotch pain before.

There is nothing worse than vag chafing.

I swore never to return.

Fast forward to a week later, when Lisa made puppy dog eyes. When that didn't work, she begged, reasoned, bribed, pouted, asked and threatened. And in a moment of weakness, I caved.

I thought of shoving some sort of padding down my shorts. Lisa even cut out a crotch shaped piece of foam and offered to sew it into my compression shorts. But the breathability factor was a bit of an issue, and I wasn't willing to commit to having a bit of recycled mattress permanently attached to one of my favourite workout garments.

So in order to be fully prepared. I bought these babies. And figured out why a grown woman would be willing to walk around looking as though she's wearing a diaper.

The model is squishing the crotch pad flat between her legs, and has no muffin top.

These bike shorts do not look like this in real life. 

I have no shame. And no chafing.

I also discovered that I don't actually have to turn the gear knob every time the instructor does. I can pretend, and no one knows. As long as I touch the knob and then make the appropriate effort faces, Lisa and the instructor are satisfied.

In fact, I now look forward to spin class. I can use it as a convenient excuse to pass on Lisa's 30 km jaunts...

Me: "Yes, Lisa, I'd love to run thirty kilometers cliffside on rock-covered poorly maintained trails dodging hail and the occasional moose, but remember how I went to spin class with you on Sunday? I think I overworked my quads. I'm really disappointed that I can't come though...".

See what I did there?

Now she just sends me pictures on her runs.

Lisa runs in the snow.

This looks nice. I was sitting outside too. With a soy latte.

And I send her pictures while she's running...

Cookies are my activity of choice.

Spin class is a great compromise. We spend quality time together. The instructor gets one super enthusiastic class participant. Lisa gets to work out, ogle the instructor's muscles, and flirt. I get to peddle leisurely beside her, with two inches of foam protecting my cooch.

And then I get a Booster Juice reward. 

Everybody wins!

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