1 Hr. Hellish Cardio + 1 Sadistically Designed Bike + A Lot of Techno Music = Spin Class

Recently, a very nice couple moved next door. My boyfriend and I finally got to meet them while we were all working out in our yards. A little conversation caught on and I found myself thinking that we might just become good “couple friends.” Anyone that’s in a serious committed relationship understands just how great it is to find similar couples to have dinner parties with or watch the game or even just share some beers. Imagine my delight when I was leaving the gym with my boyfriend and I popped into the female half of that couple. We excitedly gabbed about how we didn’t know the other also went to this gym and of course realized we could be going together. I hate going to the gym alone, but when I don’t go alone it’s with my boyfriend and all he ever wants to do free weights. It’s a little intimidating doing weights with a guy. Compared to a lot of women I know, I do pretty well lifting weights. Still, I could never equal my boyfriend and it just dwarfs all my little successes. So, we decided to meet up for spin class on Tuesday nights.

This week was my first spin class. I was doing a bunch of stuff around the house, when I realized that spin class would be in half an hour. So, I rushed around and got my kids together and ran out the door. If you’re from Jacksonville, you understand how miserable the weather has been. Buckets upon buckets of rain were slopping down and, for some ungodly reason, everyone in the world wanted to be at the gym. So, I had to park fairly far away. I was daunted by the task of getting myself and my two daughters through all that wet and decided “Why not just leave my purse in the car? It’ll make it easier to carry one kid and hold an umbrella, while the older one carries her own umbrella.” So, that’s what I did. We ran as fast as we could and managed to not get completely soaked. Time was running out, however, so I had to hurry them into the gym’s play area as fast as possible. I managed to get to the spin class just in time. I asked the instructor to help me adjust the bike. He did a lot fidgeting with it and measuring where my knees should be. The bike still felt off to me. At this point, a great many questions were forming in my brain. Why are the handlebars so low? Why is this seat designed to constantly hurt? What do you mean position two is standing and position three is standing while bent over the handlebars? I’m not entering the Tour de France!

Unfortunately, I had no time to ask these questions because the instructor was quickly back on his bike already starting the class. At first, I followed his instructions diligently. I pedaled as fast as I could and then stood up for position two. Position two is awful. It puts all of your weight on those poor little pedals. For the strikingly thin and fit young women around me, this probably wasn’t a huge issue. But, I was probably dealing with forty pounds more than they were. Pin pricks of burning hot pain shot through my hips and I was so relieved when he told us to go into position three. Position three, while taking some of the weight off, also made me a bit dizzy. I do not like bending over or being upside down. I get easily disoriented and feel like I will throw up. Still, at least there weren’t knives stabbing me in my joints. Then, he told us back to position one. I was so happy to be sitting again, until my bottom finally touched that horrid seat. It feels like it’s trying to pry your bones apart. Again, I ask, why would someone design a seat this way? Shouldn’t there at least be some padding? We were all going as fast as we could. Admittedly, that was starting to get more and more pathetically slow on my part. Just when I was beginning to feel like I was doing well, he yelled out that we should up our resistance and go into position two. So, I did. More pain. I looked at the clock. We had been doing this for only ten minutes and already I felt like I was in Hell.

I really wanted to quit right then, but I assured myself that it would only be a few more minutes. These gym classes are usually around twenty minutes. The longest I’ve known one to go was thirty minutes. I could make it. Still it felt it was so far away. I just wanted to leave so badly. So, I weighed my options. I could continue trying to do the class his way and probably pass out on my bike. The paramedics would come. Someone would have to pick up my poor children and watch them for me. Everyone in the gym would see me being hauled off to the ambulance. It would rank right up there in the worst moments of my life. I could quit and leave, making it one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Or, I could half ass it. I could just stay seated at my bike and keep pedaling, however slowly. I would finish my workout, even if I didn’t do a stellar job. I sat back down, hoping no one would notice. I really wish I hadn’t decided to sit up front.

Five minutes later my asthma attack began. Where was my inhaler? It was in my purse, which I had left in my care because of the rain. I started to panic a little, which caused the attack to grow worse. I noticed that everyone had towels and bottles of cold, refreshing water. I was so ill prepared! All I had brought with me were my keys. I looked around to make sure no one was looking my way and stopped pedaling. I closed my eyes, placed my hand on my heart, and concentrated on slowing my breath down. The cold hard knot in my lungs began to melt away slowly. So, I opened my eyes. My neighbor was looking back at me.

“You doing alright?” she asked, with a worried smile.
“Sure,” I laughed, “I just suck at this. Taking a little breather. No big deal. I’ll be back to pedaling in no time. Ha ha!”
“You’re doing great!” she said, “Don’t give up!”

Great? Really? I’m not even pedaling. Then the lady seated next to me began to look worried and asked if I needed help. I gave her the same assurances I had given my neighbor and wished like Hell she would let it go. By this time, my breathing was back to almost normal and my heart rate had gone down somewhat. So, I began to pedal again. I hoped it would look like everything was fine, but that hope quickly evaporated as I saw the instructor get off his bike and approach me.

“You okay?” he asked, filled with concern.
“I’m fine.” I said smiling, trying to pedal faster. “Just had a tiny asthma attack. I took care of it. It’s gone. I can do this.”
“Well, just listen to your body.” He suggested, “Just stick to position one for the remainder of the class.”
“Sure, I can do that.” I responded. I guess he hadn’t noticed that I had stuck to position one for the last ten minutes.

At this point, I realized that this must have been one of my gym’s longer thirty minute classes. That was alright. I could slowly pedal on an unbelievably uncomfortable bike for ten more minutes. I had gone into labor twice before after all, and the seat sort of mimicked that pain to a slightly lesser degree. I tried to distract myself from how soggy I was with sweat and how much my butt hurt by watching my classmates. At first I was intimidated. One woman was even smiling and laughing the whole time! I couldn’t figure out if she was just really that in shape or had some sort of psychiatric problem. My observations began to pan to the back of the room where I noticed people that reminded me more of me; slightly overweight and definitely not enjoying themselves. I longed for their camaraderie, but it was too late now. In just a couple of minutes, it would all be over. I couldn’t help smiling with relief as slightly slower techno music played and our instructor told us to get into position one and pedal slowly for a while. I knew the signs of cool down. It would be just a couple of minutes now. I saw the clock and realized that our thirty minutes had come and gone. Oh well, it wouldn’t be too much longer. We were just running a wee bit long.

Then, the instructor told us all to pick up the pace and followed that with a call for position two. I couldn’t believe this nightmare was going on. Still, I couldn’t just quit, especially after all the embarrassing attention I’d already gotten. I don’t know how, but I made it through that class. It lasted an entire hour. I wished I was dead the whole time, but it did finally end. The horrid music was turned off, the lights were brightened, and people wiped off their seats and handles. I was cleaning my bike, when my neighbor turned to me.

“So, are you okay?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.” I answered, “More embarrassed than anything. Forgot my inhaler and I was feeling crampy earlier so…you know.”

She nodded and smiled. The instructor walked over.

“How are you feeling? Are you going to be alright?” he said, still concerned.
“I’m totally fine now, thanks.” I answered, “I thought I’d be ready for this, but I guess I wasn’t very good.”
“Oh, no. You did great!” my neighbor chimed in.
“She’s right.” He nodded, “You did great for your first time. Most people just walk out. Didn’t you notice people leaving about fifteen minutes into it?”
“Uh, no.” I stammered. You mean I could have left? I probably didn’t notice because of the asthma attack. I stayed a whole hour and I could have left after fifteen minutes! I tried not to let the painful slap of irony show too much on my face.
“Just be sure to bring some water, a towel, and your inhaler next time.” He said smiling and walked off.

I made it home with kids in tow. My legs were spaghetti and the onslaught of post-asthma attack coughing began. Just a raspy wheeze here and short bark there. I’m nearly over it today, actually. I know I’ve been complaining this whole time about working out. I’ve also been griping about a class that many people are positively addicted to. Still, I wanted to make a point.

That class blew. I hated every moment of it. I still did it. I didn’t give up. Looking back, I don’t think I would have left if I had seen the others leaving. It wasn’t just the embarrassment that kept me at that class. It was my sense of self-worth. I didn’t keep up with the regulars. I even had to stop at one point. I did my best though and I’m proud of that. I don’t have to look back at that moment and regret anything. In fact, I can laugh at it now. I might even go back. If I do though, I’m packing heavy. Anyone know of any super comfy padding I can easily put on and take off a bicycle seat?

Last Night Was Terrifying!

My man and I decided to hit up the "Saturday Bloody Saturday" shorts at the 5 Points Theater for the Jacksonville Film Festival. They weren't gouge-my-eyes-out bad, but they certainly weren't in the least scary. In fact, some of them were just maybe touching on dark a tad. It was a stretch to label most of them under the horror genre. The Irony Gods must have been listening when I said I was disappointed that I didn't get a good scare last night.

I went to pick up my daughters and bring them home, but my car would not turn on. My boyfriend checked under the hood and soon found that the belt had broken. We decided to charge my battery and see if the car could be driven without the belt. It turned alright and the headlights didn't do anything funny. So, we put the girls in the car and headed home. Somewhere on Buckman bridge everything in my car started to flash and suddenly my headlights were off. I was ready to just pull over as soon as I could, but my boyfriend urged me not to. Speed was apparently my friend here. If we could pick up our speed, we could probably coast to at least a gas station, if not home which was only a couple of miles away. So, driving blind at probably 80 mph, I somehow made my way safely home. How I didn't wind up crashing or getting pulled over, I don't know. But, Jesus, I just wanted a scary movie! Thanks Irony Gods. Thanks a lot!

Why "Absorb" Music?

I have felt so vastly disconnected recently. Even from people I genuinely care about. Well, everyone but my kids. But, music seems to be putting it all to rights. Musicians have a better talent than creating sounds that please the ear. They can connect with anyone anywhere. They can speak your thoughts and be your lover and support your wildest causes. In my case, that includes dancing. People get injured when I dance, I swear. I just stop caring where my body's going and stumble into everything around. But, tonight, I danced in the mild and damp night air. I just let my body flow through the music. I absorbed the music. I don't know if I've ever felt for any man the sort of raw, pulsing, juicy emotions I feel for music. I don't think I ever will. I wonder if its what other people feel when they're in love or maybe what I feel when music is playing is better than romantic love. I wish I could feel this way at every moment of my life. No task would seem too difficult, as long as I never had to break from this painfully blissful explosion in my heart. If I had to choose between sustenance and music, I fear I would have to choose music. But, with the right music, I would only gently lapse into dreamlike death.

Why Garden?

There is dirt everywhere. Around my hairline, in the lines of my palms, under my nails, and all over my limbs. I'm quite a girly girl. I choose to work indoors. I should surgically attach my laptop. I carry "just in case" nail polish around and would freak out if I lost my eyebrow make up. So why do the smudges of mud, layers of sweat, and smattering of grit fill me with such contentment?

One reason I give just about everyone is that it's good exercise. Well, of course that's true. It's about all I did last week except for a little elliptical time and some squats, yet I still lost two pounds. Still, the gym I pay $70 a month is good exercise as well. Spending more time there for exercise instead of gardening would make more sense, in that case. They even have tanning beds. 

I have also claimed that, because it's a vegetable and herb garden, this will lead to a far healthier summer diet. I won't be subjecting my body to as many fatty and sugary treats. I'll be replacing them with veggies untampered by pesticides. I say this fully knowing I wouldn't be able to supply myself with a full diet of veggies from the meager space I managed to hoe and the limited amount of seeds I bought to begin with. No, if it were about eating more veggies, I would just visit Whole Foods more often.

In a last ditch attempt to explain why I'm so willing to muck about outside in the mud to attempt planting magic, I tell people I'm making an attempt to bond with my daughters. What better way to enjoy time with my children than out in the sun experiencing the joys of the planet. I can teach them so much about environmentalism and botany. In a harmonious assembly line we'll get work done and enjoy the fruits (or in this case veggies) of our labor together. Only, it never works out like that. That sun is scorching and we're all griping at each other about it. I spend most of my time trying to keep my girls from trampling the few plants we successfully transplanted from our little greenhouse tray. I don't trust any of them to do anything. They ask me the same annoying questions over and over again and I lose my temper. This is not quality bonding time. A trip to the library or the movies goes a lot farther in establishing a healthy relationship. No, bonding is with my children is not the answer.

The answer is going to come off pretty hippie, so prepare yourself. Like most people, I spend my time separated from everyone. I go to and fro in my car, which is like a moving, metallic bubble keeping me safe from the rest of the world. I sit at a cubicle designed to separate me not just from the world, but even my co-workers. I watch TV which tailors its entertainment to my needs and I never share it with anyone I don't have to. I never have to worry about compromising my desires with those of my community. Like most people, my life is insulated. Even our most passionate moments are safe these days. Gardening is not insulated. It is not safe. There's a reason "earthy" is a synonym for sexy. Days after transplanting, I am still finding traces of that warm, wet soil. I can still smell it. I'm going to eat from it not to long from now and then it will be inside me. Those nutrients will permeate my body. Gardening connects me to the planet and I will never connect to any other person in my life this intimately. So, I threw away my gardening gloves, gardening shoes, and the knee pad. I let myself get as messy as possible. 

Why roaring tulips?

I like the user name Roaring Tulips. I've been using it since....I think 2004 or so. The only time I've seen someone else use it is at another blog. Someone named Eva Wylie named a piece of art roaring tulips recently at an exhibition. Clearly, she stole it from me. Just like how I came up with the concept of butterfly kisses at 4 and years later there's a country song by the same name. Maybe I should rename this blog delusions of grandeur? Anyway, Roaring Tulips is my YIM. It's what I usually use on message boards. It's my YouTube channel. I don't really feel the need to try on any other names. Other people seem to get really confused about it though. They ask me "Do you hear flowers?" or think that perhaps it is suggestive of female anatomy. Yes, people actually have made lewd suggestions as to what my name might mean. These people think too hard. To people who aren't currently residing in my brain, it's only supposed to sound pretty. It's supposed to paint a picture in their minds. But, yes, to me it means slightly more.

I love tulips. I have for about a decade now. They are the perfect combination of elegance, delicacy, feminity, and strength. So, I spend a lot of time looking at pictures of them. I buy them a couple of times a year. I dream of trips to Holland. I was having just such a fantasy while gazing at a picture of a tulip field in Holland. It was blazing with reds, oranges, and yellows. God, I love warm colors! It went on forever and the tall flowers seemed to have been swaying. And instantly in my head, I said to myself "It looks like the tulips are roaring!" Then, I kept thinking about that. Yes, they do roar. Visually, tulips are the lions of the flower world. I am a tulip. I am feminine and appear delicate. But, I am strong...always strong. So, I am Roaring Tulips.

So no more of this joke:

What's better than roses on a piano?
Tulips on an organ.

Seriously, release the juvenile humor and go outside. Look at something beautiful. Create some of your own poetry in your heart.