Shoutin’ from the Rooftop

Hello! It’s Molly again! Back to share with you thoughts on things that you may not realize you care about.  (see what I did there?)

I have procrastinated on bringing Molly Monday to you all day because I really don’t know what to talk about.  I could become a fiction writer really quick and tell you all kinds of inspirational and life changing stories.  But that would technically be lying rather than fiction.

Instead, I will tell you about my new love-hate relationship with cycling class.  I’ve been taking this cycling class at the YMCA since January.  The cycling class is the same as a spinning class but some person has the rights to the phrase “spinning class” and therefore no one else can call it that without paying an exorbitant fee to the word owners.  The teacher’s name is Cheri (pronounced Cheery.  The irony is not lost on me.) She is amazing.  She really somehow can sense when someone is about to fall over off of their bikes because at the exact millisecond before I give in to my brain saying “ohmygosh, thishurtsobad, you must stop!” she will yell out “come on! You can do it! Do NOT stop!” Then my brain usually mumbles back something about how it really doesn’t care for Cheri and her making me do things that are painful, but I don’t usually listen to my brain because I’m too busy trying not to fall over dead.

When I first started the cycling class, I hated it.  True, unbridled hatred.  It hurt.  I couldn’t make it through the whole class.  It hurt after the fact.  And not in the “oh my legs are sore from working out” hurt.  It was a hurt that can only be compared to riding a horse for 4 days across the desert in the sun.  I made myself go back. (and by “I” I mean “my husband”) and it was no less torturous.  The only improvement was that I had a slightly better grasp on what was about to happen to me.

That was back in November.  I believe I went a total of 4 times before declaring that I hated cycling and would never ever EVER be going back.

When our new YMCA opened up here closer to me, my husband really wanted to give it a go again.  So, in the name of going to the Y at the same time he does and therefore eliminating quite so much time spent at home alone with all of my kids and no other adult, I agreed to go too.  It started out very similar.  The pain.  The hatred.  The questioning of sanity.  But suddenly, on about the 5th time, I began to enjoy the way I felt.

Let me clarify that statement.  I began to enjoy the way I felt….afterwards.

I still do not enjoy the entire 45 minutes that I am on that bike.  I usually begin by muttering something along the lines of “I am so not in the mood for this today” but I press onward.  I know I’m getting a good workout and that makes me feel good later.

It also makes me feel good before.  That sounds strange, but it actually makes me feel better beforehand than afterwards, which inspires me to eat better during the day before I go to class.

I wish I could get to the point where I enjoyed both before class, after class, and, you know, during class…but for now, I suppose,  2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

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