A Love-Hate Letter To My Spin Instructor

By Betchen Wieners

To my beautiful, perfect, terrifying spin instructor,

Where to begin? I can’t even remember life before you came around. I mindlessly went from gym to gym seeking something different, but all I got was a mediocre workout coupled with semi-sexual stares from balding, middle-aged men (like, sorry my ass is perfect and reminds you of everything that is wrong with your life). Then I met you and everything changed. I never knew how utterly lacking my workouts had been and up until that point, and I hadn’t realized how much my body was capable of improving. So many muscles had remained dormant until you called them to action. I may have fantasized about your death during our first few meetings (all that pulse/tap-back bullshit was getting real old REAL fast), but once we reached the stretching portion of class and I saw your perfectly toned bod highlighted against the flickering candle on the podium, I was inspired to do everything in my power to make it through your next class without contemplating suicide.

Here we are, years later, and my undying love and surging hate for you have only grown with the passing time. My tri-weekly visits to your class have given a huge boost to my cardio endurance, but I’m still waiting for my abs to come in. Your extreme energy that borders on insanity can really get me into class and keep me going even when lack of sleep, hangovers and my naturally pessimistic attitude want to hold me back. However, there are definitely times that all I want to do is punch you in the face. Hearing you yell “out of the saddle” or “push-ups all day long” for the 80th time in the same class can really push a girl to the edge. Just chill the fuck out. Newsflash: you hopping off the bike to skip around the room and have awkward eye contact with people pedaling their asses off is making everyone hate you. Get back on your bike and join us, asshole. I know this is your 4th class of the day, but I’m not paying $30+ a class to watch your six pack parade around the room. Speaking of your six pack…you are flawless. Marry me?

As in all relationships, communication is key. There are times when you know exactly what to say. Hearing your inspirational words “push through this” or “don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t” all while Iggy’s “Heavy Crown” is blaring in the background can get me through the toughest of inclines. I can’t imagine feeling any more powerful than I do in those moments…besides maybe giving birth or something (ew).

And then, I realize something crucial: I am literally on a stationary bike in a non-descript room cleverly disguised as some kind of hybrid spa/night club, and I don’t know if I could even ride a real bike more than around the block in the outside world. Also, the previously inspiring quote from my instructor “Whoever told you that you couldn’t, this is for them! Show them what you’re capable of!” now seems ridiculous. My old boss doesn’t give two shits about the fact that I can complete a 45-minute spin class. The same goes for my ex-boyfriend who will not suddenly, upon hearing of my refusal to sit down during a 6-minute fast jog, decide he cannot live without me as his wife. However, all of this negativity is completely forgotten when you give me a shout out from the podium. I am now an unstoppable spinning machine, and I will follow you wherever you go.

So, here’s to you, you beautiful asshole. Thanks for giving me a reason to get out of bed in the morning…I hate you for that. Thank you for giving me an impossibly high standard to spend my life failing to live up to. Never in my life have I had such respect and simultaneous contempt for another human. I don’t want to get overly sentimental, but (cue the Ray Lamontagne) you really are the best/worst thing that ever happened to me.

All my love-hate,

The Betches




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