It's official. There's something other than protein in my spin instructor's shake cup. He's gone batty. Seriously. Here's a letter I wrote in my head to him while on the bike trying not to die.
Dear Spin Man,
First, stop yelling at me. I don't respond well to you screaming at me to go "UP...TAP...UP...TAP." I don't like it.
Second, your weird techno-y mixes of some of my favorite songs are ruining them for me. I like the way Lady Gaga and Beyonce sing "Telephone." I don't like the weird superuptempo version you play.
Third, stop making me feel like fatty mcfatster when you say the people who don't yell and holler when you ask how we're doing are the ones who are gaining weight. I don't like talking or yelling when I exercise. I do not exercise to socialize; I exercise to make sure my massive calves stay, well, massive.
But, even after all of these things, I will not quit your class because I don't want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I'm a quitter. Because chances are I'm in better shape than you are. I just don't have weirdly bulging muscles, a fake tan and a ton of hair gel to show it off. So suck on that.

I believe this is who you're trying to emulate. Image courtesy of Google Images.

That's all I've got today. Enjoy.

1 comment:

  1. hahahaha. if only you knew how much i loved jersey shore. you should just junk punch your instructor and take over the class. i've found that solution usually gets me what i want. :)


Oh, herro there.

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