I take these pseudo-spiritual spinning classes with my older daughter. I tell myself it’s good: Good exercise. Good for my mental health. And most importantly, a good way to spend time together that doesn’t involve fighting.
But it’s really a night club scene – with liberal amounts of tight spandex. We mount stationary bikes in the dark and jerk our bodies around in time to loud foul music. Unsatiated sexual innuendo hangs in the heavy hot air. I almost never follow the instructions to lurch up and down and back and forth, and I still feel gross and nauseated by the end.
I’m not sure if I’m doing it to improve relations with my daughter or to relive my early 20s. Both reasons have faulty logic and questionable results.
Yet we have a reservation today at 3 pm.