The watchword for fitness this year is variety. I’m putting my gym on 30-day notice. If I can’t find enough different things to do there in a month, I’m giving up my membership and going back to messing around outdoors, dropping into yoga studios here and there and maybe taking a weekly weights class. But I have to give them a full month of chances, which is how I ended up in a 5:45 a.m. spinning class, my second in three days. Saturday’s was so grueling — ghastly music, a sadistic instructor — that I couldn’t let the taste linger. I like spinning; the hour goes by fast. So I came back yesterday morning for a palate-cleanser with a different instructor.
The music was, if anything, worse than Saturday’s speed-metal. The pace wasn’t quite as brutal, but I get really irritated with what spin teachers claim is sprinting on a stationary bike. I try to ride like an actual cyclist, and folks, we don’t go so fast our legs blur; if you’re trying to go fast, you go up a gear or three. But adding resistance on a stationery bike is just like adding a 30 mph headwind. It just sucks.
And if you’re going to make me sit through “Beat It” during one of these ordeals, at least make it the original Michael Jackson version, not some soundalike.
In my spinning class at that hour, I’d play Beyoncé and the Pretenders. But no one asked me.
And have I bored you to death yet? Sorry.
The punchline of this whole story was that I slipped on black ice in the parking lot on the way back to my car, falling directly on my knee. I’m starting to feel like Joe Namath.
Fortunately, though, I have good bloggage for you today, and you can read it without having to listen to “Blame it on the Boom Boom.” You’re welcome.
From Roy’s Tumblr, a letter from Alec Guinness to a friend, discussing a part he’d been offered, “fairy-tale rubbish but could be interesting, perhaps.” Three months later, he’s on about the “rubbish dialogue.” Bet you can’t guess what crapfest he was working in.
I love a story like this, which illustrates something most of us never think about, in this case, the ghetto economy. It’s about the valuable street substance that is craved, stolen and traded — Tide laundry detergent.
I can’t bear myself to read the Elizabeth Wurtzel essay this essay is about, but I’ll read this essay. Huh?
It’s true: Jack and Rose could have both survived the Titanic sinking, but noooo.
Finally, the best column I’ve read about Lance Armstrong in a good long time:
He cannot say he’s sorry for using performance-enhancing drugs. If he wants to confess, as reported on Friday by The New York Times, he has to leave it at that. The trained-seal routine for celebrities caught in a scandal won’t work here.
He doesn’t want forgiveness for his pharmaceutical adventures.
He wants his old life back. He wants to compete in sanctioned triathlons. He wants to return to the leadership of his cancer foundation. He wants to matter again.
Tuesday. And so the week is underway.