Exercise Impairs My Judgment. Everytime.

This post is by Tara Egan.

Earlier in the week, I began to suspect that I may be emitting some sort of . . . vibe.

It could be of desperation.  Or sexual frustration.  Or possibly vulnerability.

You know, of the ‘oh-my-God-please-be-nice-to-me-and-stroke-my-hair’ variety.

A few days ago, I went to spin class at the gym.  Most of the classes at the gym are populated by women, so I was surprised when I found the room to be positively riddled with penises.  For once the male population wasn’t represented by a single lone man pedaling away in the corner, trying not to appear gay.

The only bike unoccupied was one in the front row, directly between two men.  Perfect.

(Note:  I like to be in the front row of bikes so I can see the instructor and let everyone behind me admire my ass.)

Anyway, I approach the bike and start to adjust it to suit my height.  As I mount the bike, I note that the bikes on either side of mine are ridiculously close.

Like, I could have elbowed the dudes next to me in the face without even getting off my bike.

Because I frequently attend spin, the instructor and I are BFFs.  And by BFFs, I mean that she feels comfortable enough to use my terrible technique and/or laziness as an example to my fellow spinners on what NOT to do.

I’m cool with that.  It holds me accountable.

Anyway, I adjust myself in my seat, start pedaling to warm up, and exchange polite smiles with the dudes next to me.  I see Dude #1 nod manfully at Dude #2.

Because I’ve never noticed either of these men in class before, I scornfully think of them as spin virgins.  And everyone knows that virgins are losers.

As always, I start the class off all hard-core.  I’m pedaling fast, following all the commands barked out by the instructor, and mouthing the bad-ass song lyrics as I try to ignore my burning thighs and rising temperature.

Because I’m so close to the dudes next to me, I can’t help but notice that they are both shooting glances at me periodically.

This is a good call, because frankly, I’m on fire.  They probably want to be me right now.

As the second song ends, I reach for my water bottle, and Dude #1 catches my eye and grins.

Because adrenaline and a job well done can make people giddy, I simply grin back.

He’s all, “Looking good”, and I’m all, “Thanks, you too.”

The third song begins, and predictably, I start off awesome.

After the first 2 minutes, I feel my energy starting to flag.

(Note:  This always happens, because I’m intrinsically lazy and I don’t like to get sweaty.)

My stride falters, and Dude #2 immediately falters too.

It’s like he was using my example to keep pace.

Um, dude.  Do you not see the minimally clad, ridiculously toned instructor who is directly in front of us?  Her abs are like, an EIGHT-PACK.  What are you watching me for?  I really don’t appreciate all this pressure.

But because I’m inherently a people-pleaser, I pick up my pace.

Towards the end of the song, the instructor directs us to “Ramp!”, which means “Pedal faster, you lazy slobs!”.  I look down at my knees, concentrating.

“Tara!  Head up!  Get your head up!”

My head snaps up, and I grimace and playfully lean over and briefly rest my head on the handlebars, pretending to doze.

Dude #1 and Dude #2 laugh uproariously, obviously tickled by my joke and admiring my fearless disregard of the instructor’s lean, muscled physique.

As they both laugh a little too long, I think, “Hmmm.  Weird.  These dudes are like, acting super-attentive toward me.”

I look down.  Nope, my boob isn’t hanging out.

I casually brush my backside.  All crevasses are covered.

As class resumes, I can’t help but notice how frequently these dudes are glancing over at me.

Um, I’m dressed in spandex athletic pants, a tank top, and my unwashed hair is shoved into a ponytail.

(Note:  I’m still hot, tho.  Just so you know.)

Each time the song changes and I reach for my towel or water bottle, I’m greeted with a friendly grin.

At one point, Dude #1 winks.

What?  Did that just happen?

I look down and nervously spin my wedding band.

I mean, do these guys read my blog?  Do they know my husband and I are on the fritz?  Is there a picture of me pinned up in the men’s locker room saying, “Recently dumped with faltering self-esteem”?  Did these dudes place bets on how quickly I would surrender to their testosterone-drenched flirtations and ask them to come home with me to take out the trash and make a mess of my kitchen?

I puzzle over this, examine the evidence, and conclude the obvious:  these men are flirting with me.

Me.

Mother of two, recently separated, terrible cook, mediocre spinner.

I glance over and notice that Dude #1 is wearing spin shoes.

So he’s not even new.  He’s been to spin class before.  He didn’t decide to attend class simply to find a date.

He grins again and gives me a thumbs up.

I think, “Control yourself, dude.  I’m not that kind of girl.  I’m here to exercise.”

Oh, and I’m married.

I totally thought that too.

I glance at Dude #2.  I notice he’s wearing spandex shorts.

Weird.

And a little bit gay.

I glance back at Dude #1.  He winks again.

Flustered, I whip my head in the other direction.

Just in time to see Dude #2 wink . . . back at Dude #1.

Oh.

I get it.

My perceived hotness is completely interfering with a flirtation between Dude #1 and Dude #2.

OF COURSE THAT’S IT.

Tara Egan blogs at Do These Kids Make Me Look Crazy. According to her About Page, she loves frosting and only pretends to like dogs because it’s socially unacceptable not to.

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