I recently joined Flywheel and have really enjoyed it. Once you get past the first week of cursing your instructor’s every single word and have moved past feeling like you want to pass out, it’s a pretty enjoyable way to get your workout on. It’s certainly better than hot yoga.
My favorite part of the class is the fact that the incredibly loud blaring music and near complete lack of light makes it impossible for anyone to pay attention to anything anyone else in the room is doing – no one sees my pathetic attempts to get away with not adding any resistance or speed the entire class because they’re too busy focused not dying.
The only blessing/curse (depending upon how you view these things) that gift of anonymity provides in fitness classes like this is that you are inhibited from “meeting a guy at the gym” as every piece of dating advice since forever has suggested – you can’t really strike up a conversation about the Braves over a loud club mix from a neighboring stationary bike while you’re sweating like a pig.
So anyway, a while back, I’m cycling away, just minding my own business, and I spot a particularly attractive guy a few rows down from me (Flywheel has stadium cycling, so I can see his incredibly sculpted back in perfect, flatering shadows, while he can’t see my flailing body slowly dying bit by bit behind him.) I decide this is Target Numero Uno and plan to “accidentally” bump into this guy after class.
In the meantime, I make it through the remaining 15 minutes of class by focusing solely on his incredibly sculpted back. It’s only creepy if someone notices me doing it.
Class ends and I follow him out, slightly light-headed, high on endorphins and the knowledge that I am about to meet my true love. I take my time refilling my water, giving myself a second to plan out the next few minutes so that I time out my time in the girl’s locker room and return to the lobby perfectly in order to intercept and formally meet this beautiful man. After all, I need to inform him of my ring size.
I open up the bathroom door and walk halfway through the locker room before I glance up to see my future husband staring at me, shirtless, dripping wet, with a towel tied around his waist.
You know, when mom said “Meet a guy at the gym,” I don’t think she meant in the men’s locker room.