It's Cyclical, Really...

Friday night I did something that no person in their coherent mind should ever do in a sober state. You guessed it; I attended a spinning class. A spinning class!! Who am I? I'm not middle aged! (for the record I'm 22, just like Taylor Swift says) I don't live in Manhattan! I don't have a wealthy husband who's cheating on me with his secretary, have 3 children that refer to the maid from Venezuela as "Mommy" or have a plastic surgeon that makes inappropriate advances to me when I'm getting my lips done!!! What in the world could have possibly persuaded me to attend said spinning class? It was free. That's pretty much my only criteria as a college student living in West Palm. Free spinning class? Sure! Free T-Shirt? Abso-freaking-lutely! Free tattoo? Only if it's a Mexican drinking worm*!

One of the better things about going to college in West Palm Beach is that your school will occasionally  string up deals with local businesses and in this case, fitness centers, for a collection of free products for the students to enjoy. I'm pretty sure it's their way of making up for the tuition. "Yes, it is $35,000 a year, but with our selection of free fitness classes around the West Palm area, you'll be paying off those student loans with the firmest caboose this side of Plantation!" However, the free stuff can be pretty convenient and while I normally promptly delete the dozens of student-body-sent e-mails that arrive daily in my inbox, the spinning class caught my eye and before I knew it, I was e-mailing the contact to confirm my bike spot. There was no turning back.

I've had a love-hate relationship with spinning since I was a child. Well stationary bikes in general, really. We used to have one in our garage when I was growing up, my mom's go-to work out routine. I used to love to get hoisted up on the large seat by my dad, my legs too short to reach the pedals. Slipping my 4-year old feet into the velcro straps that barely secured my toes, I would push the petals as hard as I could, utterly confused and distraught as to why I would push and push and never get anywhere. Can you say "foreshadow"? Even so, I loved the stationary bike and it loved me. The relationship was solid and steadfast. But all good relationships must come to an end.

It was a Thursday evening, 1995 (?) and I desperately needed my mother's aid. However, she was no where to be found! I searched the house for what seemed like hours until I approached the door to the garage, hearing the unmistakeable whirring of the stationary bike. Opening the heavy door that just a few years before had taken a precious piece of my tiny finger ( aWHOLEnother blog) I stepped into the garage and saw my mother spinning away, her grey biker shorts drenched in sweat. Music was playing. Loud music. If memory serves it was either Amy Grant or The Carpenters. Not wanting to disturb her workout, I gingerly stepped into the garage and walked over to the back of the bike. Oblivious to my presence, Mom continued to pedal in a Lance Armstrong (pre-doping) furry. Taking one step further to get her attention, my tiny shoe got caught on some other piece of exercise equipment and down I went, face first into the moving back wheel of my mother's stationary bike. Round and round the wheel, that I'm pretty sure was made out of sandpaper, went, abrasively tearing away all of precious 4 year old skin underneath my eye. It was a complete blur after that. I either passed out or saw some sort of heavenly light.. one of the two. I don't remember much after that, but I do recall what my eye looked like after. Hint? Think Nick Nolte's mug shot.


As of Friday, stationary bikes and I have re-kindled. I have pushed my bitterness aside and forgiven these bikes that seem to be going no where fast.


*Neither Amy Smith nor any of the contributers of this blog recommend, promote or encourage the act of receiving any sort of complimentary tattoo artistry that includes but is not limited to a Mexican drinking worm**.

**See "Bridesmaids".

Can I Just Say...

You know what show never gets old? The show that ultimately defined a generation of teenagers to watch Spielberg films, take long boat rides to your neighbor's house and talk awkwardly about sex at the age of fifteen while wearing an oversized flannel t-shirt and Dock Martins? Dawson's Creek. Now, before you swiftly close this blogger's web tab and open up Pinterest to fool yourself into thinking you'll find the perfect Baked Alaska recipe or that you will indeed buy that outfit that Jessica Alba is wearing in the pin under the board entitled "My Style", let me prove my point............. Okay, I can't. Dawson's Creek was pretty much one of the most unrealistic and generationally fantastical programs on the WB (presently known as the CW, you youngsters). The fictional town of Capeside was not only the home to a thirty-something teacher who had an affair with her fifteen-year old student, (whose father was the town sheriff, no less) but also housed a pair of child-hood sole mates whose wanna-be collegiate, impressionistic run-on vocabulary would make Tolstoy's head turn. Please don't misinterpret my judgment for distain. Nothing makes my heart melt faster than hearing the first three measures of Paula Cole's "I Don't Wanna Wait". I instantly envision Pacey Witter, Joey Potter, Jen Lindley and, the creek's main man, Dawson Leery dancing with each other underneath the small pier on the Massachusetts coast with an  Alanis Morissette abandon. 

And let us not forget the lovable side characters that made their presence known in Capeside in the highly anticipated debut of the creek's second season. Andie Mcphee showed as all that it was okay to be a little crazy... I mean, who doesn't see visions of their dead brother when getting ready for school in the morning? And her cheek pinch-able brother Jack, who taught us all to be brave..... to be bold.... to come out of the closet by writing a poem for an English assignment and then being shocked that the insufferable teacher makes you read it out loud in front of the entire class. And who could forget Abby Morgan. Is it safe to say no one was sad when she died? Now, teen drunkenness is no joke. But falling seven feet off a bridge and drowning after hitting your head in a drunken state on a piece of plywood? Come on, Abby. 


If you've never seen Dawson's Creek or have perhaps never heard of it (where ya been, bud?) then I encourage you to get yourself a Netflix account, turn off your iPhone, pour yourself a glass of CupCake Chardonnay and watch seasons 1-6 within the next 24 hours . Believe me, you can do it. 

P.S. Word of advice- Skip season 5. It's not important and Chad Michael Murray gets WAY too much screen time.