The Superspinner

Dear "pregnant" chick in Sunday morning spinning class,

I am on to you. I don't believe for a second that you are actually pregnant.

I suspect you snuck into a dressing room at the nearby Mimi Maternity store, strapped on the prosthetic pregnant belly, and slipped out the front door of the store. From there, I believe you decided to throw on some bike shorts and sneakers and head to the gym just to make everyone believe that you are some superhuman being.

I don't buy your act.

No pregnant woman in her right mind would hop on a bike for a grueling hour, only to ride absolutely nowhere, in a room filled with sweaty men and women, some of whom might potetnitally harbor the H1N1 virus or worse.

If my instincts about you are misguided and you are, in fact, actually "with child," I think you might be mentally unstable and I would like to tattle to your doctor about your dangerous extracurricular activities.

Didn't your doctor warn you about the risks of exposing your unborn baby to booming techno music? Aren't you concerned about exhaustion? Falling off the bike?

I'll tell you one thing, if you go into labor in the middle of spinning, while I'm pedaling along to the Black Eyed Peas and glancing at the clock every 10 seconds, I am not going to stand in as your midwife.

Nor doula.

Nor doctor.

Nor nurse.

Nor Lamaze coach.

Sorry. It's not that I'm a heartless pseudo-cyclist, I just would rather not participate in another birth at this time. I hope that you understand.

I am simply trying to get back into some sort of shape, move my muscles a bit, and bop to the music.

In between cursing the creator of spinning, bruising my butt on the rock hard bike seat, gulping down water, and trying to avoid eye contact with the flawless instructor, screaming my name for "encouragement," I have you directly in my line of vision. And I don't appreciate it.

What worries me the most is that in a couple of months, I'll see you again, without that bogus bump. You'll gallivant into spinning, jump on a bike like Lance Armstrong, and you may even have somebody else's baby (or it could even be a doll that cries real tears and pees in a diaper) strapped to your chest in a Baby Bjorn. Everyone will be looking at you in awe, thinking, "Wow, look at her, she just gave birth 72 hours ago, isn't she amazing?" But, I'll still be in the back of the class, huffing and puffing up a hill to nowhere, not buying your shenanigans for one minute.

Okay, so here's your final chance to come clean. That's not a baby in there, is it? That protruding belly button doesn't even look real! Let go of the charade, lady. Otherwise, I'm not coming back to spinning class.

(You may think that I'm just looking for an excuse to get out of spinning ever again. If that's what you think, you're absolutely right).

Yours truly,

the lazy ass in the back of the class, shooting you dirty looks