It's only a matter of time before the less seasoned Angelinos like myself hear this question: "You wanna go to a spinning class?"
I'm sure that my time was past due.
"Spinning? Is that like the bike that doesn't go anywhere?"
I'm sure this made my friend raise an eyebrow.
"Yeah, you could say that. I go to this place in Silverlake. Cycling and yoga. The instructor will show you a side of yourself that you didn't know existed."
To those engaged in the world of fitness and general self
health, this question may not seem so odd. Apparently spinning executed a
hostile takeover of the less exciting phrase stationary bicycle while I was busy gaining ten pounds with sloth-like abandon - that or being preoccupied with shinier endeavors.
It has since become a cult like work-out society, warranting specialized
"spinning gyms" and causing riots outside the spinning room at gyms the
My mind briefly raced back to a moment when I still lived in Atlanta and worked at Disoda Soda. A friend of mine, Joe, got hired as the giant Disoda Soda mascot and spent his days controlling a puppet akin to that of The Bear in the Big Blue House for tourists the world over. They spent the time inbetween their sets hiding out in the bear room - a miniscule locker room that seemed more like a closet than anything else. The unmistakable smell of hot, sweaty males spilled through the cracks of the door, but I'd still sometimes go and hang out in the bear room with the puppeteers on my breaks.
Joe had recently discovered how the internet could speed up the process of meeting eligible singles and, as a result, spent the better half of the year going out on date after date with the internet's finest. The women he described ranged from polite and pleasant to bleak or bizarre - but not one of them held a candle to Carol.
"I met her off of Myspace," he boasted happily, "and she was a midget."
"Don't you mean a little person?" I asked.
"And not only was she a midget, but get this," he said, glancing from side to side for effect, "she had a glass eye."
We were quiet. Clyde, one of Joe's brothers in bear-hood and my significant other at the time, finally spoke up:
"Joe, why on earth were you doing taking out a little with a glass eye?"
"How did you even know it was glass?" I asked.
"I will answer your questions in the order they came. Clyde, I didn't know she was a midget until she came out to her front porch and -"
"You met her off of Myspace and she allowed you to pick her up - at her home?" I asked.
"... Yes. So she came out to the porch and I couldn't help but notice how she was only three feet tall. And I thought, "I don't remember her telling me that she was a midget!"
"You didn't notice anything slightly off from her photo?"
"She did that whole Myspace angle," he said, raising his hand high above his head and pretending to snap a photograph, "so it wasn't exactly obvious that she was only a few inches above the bathroom counter."
"You should have said something, dude."
"Why? I can't just show up to her place and then not take her out. I was past the point of no return. So then I go up to the porch, right? Only she's not coming down. Well, not like a normal person would, anyway, so -"
"Maybe it's because she's a little person!" interrupted Clyde, totally flabbergasted.
"You would think so, but she was having a hard time not because of her height, but because of her leg."
"Her bum leg."
"A little person with a glass eye and a bum leg."
"Yes! An actual midget with a glass eye and a bum leg."
"I call your bluff," I muttered, "So hard."
"Did you guys even make it to the date part?" Clyde asked.
"Well, yeah. You guys should have been there for the movie. We went to the theater at Atlantic Station, but the escalator was busted."
"... Did you..."
"I did! I picked her up and I carried her up the stairs and into the lobby. Because I'm a gentlemen."
"You did ask her before you just hoisted her up over your shoulders, right?"
According to Joe, they made it through the movie, the subsequent dinner, and back to her house without a hitch.
"She was actually a super nice person," he mused, "and she totally asked me if I wanted to go inside."
"You slept with her."
"No! No, I did not!" he said, "but as I stood there at her porch, watching her beckon me into her home, I thought, 'When will I ever get the chance to do this again?"
"WHY?" Clyde asked.
"Because," Joe said, enthusiastically, "midgets. You can spin them."
"They can spin."
I spent the next few minutes in a furious attempt to even remotely fathom what he meant.
Then I realized that by, "you can spin them," he meant, "you can spin them. On your penis."
I turned around and left, trying my hardest to fend off a frightening inner montage of possibilities.
"Are we still good for spinning on Sunday?"
I forced myself to think of a room full of stationary bicycles, but the little person from Joe's tales of old in Atlanta kept inserting herself into the picture. She would be sitting on every single bike at the same time, spinning round and round.
Surely it was a sign that the time had come to reclaim the word "spinning."
"Sure," I said, "Sure, I'm down for spinning."