It is that time of year again when I am at greatest risk of accidentally having my slightly hairy thigh make contact with a far hairier, far less conscientious thigh due to the careless proliferation of body parts that characterizes men on the subway (and also, everywhere). I think it’s great that everyone is wearing shorts. I think body positivity is wonderful. But your thigh is just objectively gross, and keep it the fuck away from mine, k? As the age-old saying goes, “Your balls are not that big.”
It’s also the time of year when my comfort would be exponentially greater, given the sticky, sweltering heat that gathers all the streets of New York into a sweaty mass of metropolis that smells like an overturned garbage truck, if I could wear dresses every day, but when I still choose jeans and a t-shirt to avoid both the visibility of my crotch to everyone below me on any given subway stairway and unwanted attention from shitty dudes.
Sir, my ass is not there for you to ogle at like you’re watching fucking Chef’s Table. It is for me to sit on and for me to poop out of. Next time I see a dude staring creepily at a woman’s ass I’m going to get really close to his ear and whisper, “She poops out of that.” If he’s really being gross, I’ll be like, “She has explosive diarrhea out of that.”
- Copious tourists, whose tanned arms emerging from singlets bearing the acronym “YOLO” inexplicably string across two poles on the subway, giving me the option of jabbing said singlet-bearing torso with my elbow or ducking under disgusting-ass, blond hair-covered armpits;
- forgetting my office sweater at home and attempting to covertly shove my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher in order to warm them up in the Arctic office atmosphere;
- Riding my bike to Coney Island, getting sand in my butt crack, riding my bike home from Coney Island with sand in my butt crack;
If the universe didn’t want me to make a bunch of puns about the Grand Canyon and my period, it wouldn’t have brought my period while I was in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon.
Unfortunately I didn’t have time to write this while I was actually there because I was too busy *~hiking~* and *~clutching my bloated tummy~* so I may be incapable of producing inspiring puns, particularly because I’m back in New York and there’s nothing red or arid or cavernous about this place. Also, I haven’t written here in ages so I feel a little out of practice.
Bae and I felt that, given the fart-filled balloon we’ve elected as president, we ought to go out and support our national parks while we still have the chance. Some day I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that I shed my uterine lining while hiking the Grand Canyon. They’ll be filled with awe, like a pad bursting with blue fluid. Or they won’t even know what I’m talking about, because the Grand Canyon will have been filled with concrete to build a Google campus #justkiddinggoogle #idneverinsultyougoogle #iloveyougoogle
By the way, y’all, a body was airlifted out of the canyon the day before we came. I literally experience moments of fear walking down a hallway that I will just fall on my face spontaneously, and I somehow endured the Grand Canyon after finding out that someone had just fallen to their death. Unsurprisingly, most of the people who die in the canyon are men.
All right, that’s enough rambling.
So, believe it or not, I returned to SoulCycle yesterday for another free class (after which I headed straight to the movies to see I Am Not Your Negro – can you imagine if James Baldwin was around for SoulCycle?), and spent much of the class pondering whether Shinzo Abe felt this same agonizing stretching of time, like a string of putty that refuses to break, as he shook hands with Donald Trump.
Look, I’m sure Mr. Abe has had his share of unjust political actions, but no one deserves this.
Anyhow, SoulCycle. Seriously, how can a documentary about James Baldwin and a Britney Spears-themed spin class that costs thirty five bucks exist in the same city – in the same world? I’d love to hear what James Baldwin would make of SoulCycle – “sequestered rooms of imitated slavery, spawned by a desire to reduce guilt over true slavery and to deduce that the real slavery was not, indeed, so terrible.”
Like, my first bike in New York was 150 bucks. Five days of SoulCycle costs more than this. After I bought that bike, I proceeded to pay it back and then some by working as a bike messenger, delivering groceries, meals, and rent checks across the city. I made my living this way, and ate dollar pizza for almost every meal – I was hardly ever full. I couldn’t keep pounds on. Forget Trump – in what kind of dystopian world do we live if people will pay for SoulCycle when they can literally just get on a bike and go somewhere? And get paid for it?? I literally can’t even.
I’m not writing on this blog as much because I’m writing a something longform at the moment – and no, it’s not erotic world leader fiction. My mom told me it was offensive to write about a black man committing adultery.¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Y’all are not gonna motherfucking believe this, but I went to SoulCycle today. They’re running a promotion for those of us graced by the light of Google, and I got to enjoy being shouted at in the dark for forty-five minutes for free, if you can believe it.
Ok so first of all, the World’s Tightest Ass occupied the bike in front of me, emblazoned with the Lululemon logo (to be fair, I was wearing Lululemon leggings too, but only because I snatched them out of the Google donation bin when no one was watching like a fucking ogre) and topped by a torso wearing a SoulCycle shirt. Like, have you ever looked in the mirror? I mean, obviously you look in the mirror, like if I looked like you I would have a mirror surgically installed on my body to face myself at all times. But like…you wearing that shirt is like an Abercrombie sweat shop worker buying an Abercrombie shirt and wearing it to work at the sweat shop, except for the sweat shop pays them instead of them paying it.
Can you imagine a sweat shop worker somehow stumbling into a SoulCycle class? You are paying someone to scream at you in a room that smells and feels like a teenager’s Dutch oven while you work your ass off and sweat balls. In fact, I bet that in five years we’ll find out that SoulCycle has actually been gathering kinetic energy from all of us idiots and selling it to Con Ed for a sweet profit. This is some Black Mirror shit if I’ve ever seen it.
Halfway through the class I felt like I was gonna poop my pants, because it was so fucking hot in the room. If there’s something I can be proud of in my life, it’s that I’ve made it this far without pooping my pants. I kept pedaling, weighing my options. Poop my pants, or get up in front of this entire room of active wear models and TV movie CEOs and Disney Princesses and leave the room to cool off. I ended up risking the former to avoid the latter. This is the kind of environment I chose to be in for forty-five minutes today. This is why people end up as sister wives, y’all!
I really, truly, honestly have no interest in looking like that. It would make the descent into flabby old age that much steeper. Plus, I fucking love cake. The only reason I work out is so that I can write in my blog and eat cookie butter straight out of the jar.
Anyway, I have two more free classes, and I’m definitely going to go to them.