Happy Friday, Reader!
I got a new stationery bike for Mother’s Day and I’m obcessed with it. My industrious son assembled it and had it waiting in our basement gym when I came home the other night. We’ve collected a giant room full of exercise equipment and gadgets my New York City sister says would rival any fitness club in Manhattan, only in ours you’re not jammed in with scores of cranky, sweaty people fighting over machines. The gym is my sanity, my sanctuary, where I refuel. When I’m being good, I don’t answer the phone or allow any interruptions, only the sweet sounds of the Food Network on the TV while I hit target heartrate on the treadmill, or head for the ceiling on the trampoline. But I think my new favorite will be the bike, which I’ve actually always hated before The Exercise Nazi came with it. Now, on this model you can insert a card in a slot and Jillian Michaels, the dominatrix from The Biggest Loser, yells at you to keep going, don’t give up!!! And she knows if you’re goofing off, getting too hung up with the recipes on TV, and losing your focus– she bumps up the speed or the resistance, and you can’t escape!! She and the machine document your every move, and keep you prisoner until you collapse at the end with a mixed sense of relief and pride in your own physical prowess. It’s not the same experience being all alone in the gym with nobody to care if I bag it after ten minutes. This way, I’m accountable, someone is The Witness, someone else cares! Don’t we all need a special relationship like that?