SPRING! SPRING! SPRING! SPRING! SPRING! SPRING!
So I did something I’ve never done before today: I took a spinning class.
‘kay, so, I’m all about the street, the sights, sounds, dodging cars, people and pets. You name it, I love it. But, after a bad day I decided I needed to kick it up a notch. And oh shit did I ever. It’s so surreal, all these stationery bikes in a dark room with dance music blaring. And, for the first half it was me gasping, sucking air like a fish flailing on the floor, pedaling like a granma, feeling like Ullrich getting the smackdown on the Alps in ’01.
Thankfully, riding a stationery bike is just like, well, riding a bike, and these gobs of muscles remembered what the fuck they’re supposed to be doing, and I think, had I been moving, I might have been able to pass that granma….provided she was using a walker…and was blind.
Whoo. How many more weeks before I get to ride for real?!!?
Of course, the month of February must be done away with first. Good thing it’s moving at a steady clip, and I swear to god if I see one snow flake I’m out there with my blowdryer!
The thing I hate most about this time of year is not the manic weather, but rather Valentine’s Day, and not for the reason one might think. Oh sure, yeah, “Valentine’s Day makes single people feel so baaad! Wah wah waaaah!” Naw, with or sans boy I still hate it, goddamned Hallmark-induced-mindless-spending-and-no-sex-for-you-should-you-forget-to-spend-an-inordinate-amount-of-money-on-red-shiny-crap-day!
You can spend all the money in the world on roses, but if your socks are lying around on the floor for weeks at a time, growing their own ecosystem and scaring even the roaches, it’s pointless.
I guess I’m old and jaded. Fine. I’d rather be old and jaded than old and hanging with someone I want to see on the side of a milk carton on a regular basis!
But, I’m not the only one like me. It’s an epidemic, and I for one would like to see some changes, goddamn it. I mean, we can stay single forever, we can make our own money, change the oil in the car and fix the plumbing, but it gets boring after a while.
Thus, I have deduced a Spinsterella manifesto for me’n’my girls: I am hereby placing a moratorium on 20-30-something-year-old boring lifeless chicken-shit pussy men. To date we chickies they must:
- Have the ability to converse. Period.
- They don’t have to be highly educated or have a lot of exotic experiences, but for chrissakes don’t hold our lives against us. We’re not better, just more in debt, and can probably win at Trivial Pursuit.
- Know what you want, and do something about it. As Grandma used to say, “Piss or get off the pot.” You want to date us, then date us, you’re not sure, then don’t. No vacillation, no uncertainty, yes or no, and no going back and forth between us and your baby mama, or we’re going to gang up on you and stab you in the neck with chopsticks.
- If you want to date us, then you kinda’ have to let us know. Sure, we can locate misplaced items with the weird homing device hidden somewhere in our uterus’ (uterii? And, yeah, it’s a weird thing…..I think it’s right next to the gaydar button…) but we’re not psychic. Well, except for that chick on that TV show…
- This is just for me, but you have to know how to use the word peloton in a sentence…
- And this is the hardest part, and I’ll be the one to admit it, and possibly risk losing my girl club card, but no matter how much dough we rake in, or how well we can hammer a nail, there’s something to be said for being “wooed.” I know, old fashioned and such, but there’s a reason chick flicks are all about that shit. I for one would gladly spend the rest of my life with someone who knocks my socks off. Well, not literally. That’s crossing a line, and see No. 3 for the resulting punishment.
But, the best part, is that in return for all this you’ll get a damn cool babe who’ll knock your socks off in return… and maybe even pick them up off the floor for you every once in a while…with chopsticks, of course!