Lazy

“I know why he’s not standing... he’s lazy!”, my instructor spells it out to me, 45 minutes into the class, after I have did everything in my power to please her.

Not only did she call me lazy, she does so in front of twenty other people, half of which will never try this class again. I turn red; I am embarassed, but I direct all the negative energy towards my legs, towards the bike, and use it as fuel.

“I was spinning four times last weekend! I’m not lazy,” as I stand up one last time to do the last five minutes of class.

My legs are sore, in pain, it’s not because I’m lazy. In fact, I was pushing the hardest in this class. I am sweating the most. I have put a hundred and ten percent into this class, and what? I’m fucking lazy.

It’s good to be motivated. And, yeah, I made the mistake of asking this crazy, pregnant lady to push me when she sees me slacking off. It’s totally my fault.

I push my towel over the tension on the bike so she can no longer keep tabs on me and my eyes go to the floor. I’m infuriated and want to prove to her that I can do it.