Spin Class is Good For Your Heart

I would make a terrible warrior.  

We are fifteen minutes into spin class, and I want to fall off my bike and die.

"Increase your bike's resistance, and push!" Sara, the 22-year old blonde spin instructor at the front of the class, is yelling at me.  Well, I guess the whole class. Not really yelling, she's smiling, so..

I remember watching the first Lord of the Rings movie when I was still in high school.  The message resonating within me long after the movie ended was the overwhelmingly romantic notion of trenching into battle so passionately for something you believed in; something you would be willing to die for.  I was so enamoured of the relationship between Aragorn and Liv Tyler. I also had a huge crush on a boy from the volleyball team who took me to Lord of the Rings, so maybe that is really the basis of my inspiration here. I imagined him as Aragorn, and myself as Liv Tyler with perfect skin, riding through green hills on tall horses.  I don't know how people can make movies and not fall in love with each other.

Volleyball boy also brought his friend along to the movie and he sat right between us. I took it as a sign that Volleyball boy wanted to win my heart the old-fashioned way, by playing hard to get.  I spent the ride home in the backseat alone imagining myself on a midnight black steed, making my way through the mist, searching the hills of battle for my true love. I would fight for Volleyball boy, I would follow him to the ends of the earth, never faltering until I had slayed every dragon.. are there dragons in Lord of the Rings? Can't remember. Anyways, Volleyball boy went on to marry his college sweetheart and take over his dad's roofing business. I don't remember what happened to his friend.

"Faster!" Sara's charging instruction shatters my thought process and brings me back to the present: painfully bouncing on stationary bike trying to pedal as hard as I can. My legs are made of fresh red licorice. I want to die. 

"Don't give up! Think of how sexy your legs will look on vacation this winter!" It's like Sara can read my mind. Of course I want to give up. I try to visualize how sexy my legs will look on vacation this winter but I just don't care; nor can I afford a tropical vacation. Most likely my winter vacation this year will consist of drinking bud lites in the snowmobile shack with my boyfriend. You don't need sexy legs for ski-pants. Come to think of it, you don't really need a razor either..

My heart is pumping so alarmingly fast and loud I think it may burst through my t-shirt. My t-shirt that has been drenched with sweat. The sweat of a failed warrior.

"How bad do you want it?!" Sara shouts at me. I don't want it, Sara. I want to be on my couch eating chips and watching The Mindy Project.

"I give up!" I try to say, but I'm breathing much too hard. Comes out more like a gurgle.  I would trade stumbling through the mist - and basically anything in this world - if I could just meet relief.

In the battlefield of life, perhaps I'm more of an observer.

One Way Tolerance.

Once upon a time, I wanted to change my province and try to work for an organization I believed in, to try to make a differe- ugh. Blah, blah, blah. If you want to be a hero, don't work in politics.  At one time, I had aggressively pursued a career within the inner circle of provincial affairs.  My enthusiasm was unmatched at the time.  Fast forward a couple years and here we are. 

Gone are the days of bright-eyed, anticipatory wonder, and unrealistic ideals.  I've settled into a steady, loping pace at work, and although my objectivity may be a tad jaded most of the time, I feel as though I am quite realistic in terms of my expectations and my abilities at work.  I mean, it's called "work" for a reason, right? It's a job. It's not my life. I need to repeat that mantra to myself silently, edging out the anxious noise that sometimes threatens my patience.  This one fellow I work with has been drinking the political organization kool-aid for longer than I've been alive, probably.  He is an over-achiever and a micro-manager and I've never seen him enter or leave the building, which leads me to believe that he lives at work in his office. People like this, I assume, must really not be a fan of their personal lives. I like to keep work and play separate. Clean lines.

What can you say about politicians? We paint most with a similar hued brush. Mostly, I can't fault this prerogative.  I mean, the great people we know and identify as leaders already have terrific jobs that allow them this position of influence.  Farmers, small-business owners, nurses, teachers, moms... you get the idea. But I am not here to dissect our judgement on politicians. Quite the opposite.

Last Christmas, my boss (who lives in the public eye on a small scale) said some things in an interview that he shouldn't have. They were not aggressive or vicious - they were perhaps inflammatory and just plain ignorant. Media and citizens alike immediately attacked him.  Hate mail and phone calls flooded my inbox and my voicemail and a very stark reality smacked me in the face. The overwhelming and hateful response from offended civilians completely outweighed the transgression (comparatively) my boss had mistakenly made.  I wish I could give you some sort of context without becoming too personal, but the words I read and the detestation within the boundaries of the messages I received gave me a heavy heart and I wondered, as I read each individual message, if the authors of these hostile words felt that this was a form of payback? or did this malevolence justify my boss' crime? Did their offence automatically spare them accountability for their choice of words? Is my boss not a human being as well? (Well...) It made me step back a significant amount and honestly wonder if these people had thought twice before hitting send.  Does this make them any better than my boss and his poor choice of words? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?, I wanted to reply. But instead, in my usual sparkly manner, I responded with complete formality and thanked them for their time and concern. I'm such a lady.

There was a mailer sent out from our political organization headquarters earlier this month. I have come to anticipate the inevitable and brace myself from the onslaught of nasty-grams from the very same people I had the pleasure of corresponding with last Christmas.  I am always shocked, and I'm not sure why, at the blatant aggression from people who receive political mailers without consent or permission. I understand you may disagree with political mailers, and perhaps they inconvenienced you by having to walk over to the trash to dispose of them, but these mailers did not rob your house, nor did they murder your family, so please stop reacting so violently.

I'm not trying to defend anyone here - least of all a political constitution. I am just a little sad inside that people can be so malicious over a seemingly small disturbance, and the escalation of emotion over such a trivial thing (an unwanted comment, an redundant piece of mail) can lead to such animosity. Let's spread the love a little over here, because human tolerance should go both ways.