Single Cinderella

It's a pity to look this good and not have anyone to impress. This thought flirted with my mind as I applied the final layer of bright "retro red" lipstick. I posed dangerously for the full-length mirror. It's a shame... a real shame. The shimmering, magenta, mermaid gown hugged my hips and traced it's silver lining along my waist. Sequins snagged the light in my room and threw it in all directions, like millions of fireflies racing across the walls. Maybe my roommates are right. Maybe I should just go to the dance, even though my date fell through, and I'll be the only person there alone. But I'm crazy, so I went!

The dance was jiving! I had so much fun dancing with all my roommates and their dates, until the slow song came on. Then I was suddenly an outcast. Thrust to the cold, dark corner, alone and dateless and beautiful. How awkward.

After about the fifth slow song, I desperately ran out of the room and spotted a couple guys standing by the stairs in hoodies. They definitely didn't look like they were at the dance with dates (and if they were... I sure hope their dates were wearing hoodies too!). I walked up to them and asked, "Hey, do you guys have dates?"

"No..." They chuckled, giving each other "this chick is insane" eyes. "We're with the tech crew."

"Oh good! I don't have a date either. Come dance with me! I feel so awkward!" I grabbed the cutest one and started dragging him into the institute gym. When we reached the center of the dance floor, I set his arms up so they were in the correct position, and led the poor bedazzled boy around the dance floor. My frilly skirt swooshed and fanned out as I spun and twirled with all the grace of a pink, overgrown jellyfish--a jellyfish with a starry-eyed kid in a hoodie caught in her tentacles.

We danced a couple dances that way, and soon the pink, dancing jellyfish had lulled her prey into a googly, drooling trance. He stuck around, even during the hokey-pokey, kind of like a stray dog you feel bad for and feed, then suddenly you've adopted a new member of the family.

Then, the clock struck midnight (my ex-boyfriend showed up)! Of course, he had a date. It was too much--I fled! Without saying goodbye to my poor, makeshift date, I gathered my skirt in my arms and raced in three-inch heels home. When I reached our back yard, I collapsed into the hammock and stared into the sky. My life is just so weird.

After a good, cold hour in the hammock, my roommates came home with their dates, and we all went out for ice cream. I didn't want any, but they told me I would really be a frilly, pink, no-good, uncool, dateless loser if I didn't. So of course I did! We all squished into a booth and started feasting when my phone started ringing! An unknown number from California!

"Uh... Hello?"

"Hi! It's Miles! Don't think I'm a stalker! I got your number from some tall guy at the dance who said he knew you."

I couldn't believe it! He had gone around to everyone at the dance, asking if anyone knew the mysterious beautiful jellyfish, and it was my old boyfriend (the reason I fled so hurriedly in the first place) who gave him my number! No way! This just keeps getting better. After an awkward, weird conversation with Prince Charming, I said good night, and had an awful laugh with my roommates.

My life is so weird!

Oompa Loompa

After about two minutes of sitting on the stationary-bike seat, my sit bones were already screaming for mercy, and I hadn't even started peddling yet! The awful seat was hard, small, and narrow--the exact opposite of my rear end. I wasn't going to wimp out, though.

The instructor walked in. She was small and lean, with a short ponytail and a tight, blue tank-top. She took one look at me, perching awkwardly on my bike, and said, "You're new!"

Uh... Yeah, but is it that obvious? She walked over to the corner where my bike was located and started adjusting the height of my seat and the position of my handlebars. She kept measuring the angles of my legs and arms, raising a little here, sliding forward a little there. For some reason, she just couldn't adjust that bike satisfactorily.

I finally had to explain to her, "If you haven't already noticed, my body isn't proportionate." She stepped back and observed as I stretched out my stubby legs and arms for her viewing.

"As you can see here, my arms barely reach past my waist, which is too long for my legs, which start lower than you'd think and end sooner than you'd calculate normal. I guess I'm sorta shaped like an Oompa Loompa--those short, stubby folks that work in Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory (you know the ones). In fact there may not be a setting on this bike that can accommodate my abnormalities."

I could tell the instructor accepted that dismal conclusion, because she sighed and said, "Well, the way we've got it now is pretty good. Are you comfortable?"

"Sure!" Woops, I lied. What are you thinking, lady?! Am I comfortable? My behind is throbbing, and there is no relief! My own weight is constantly smashing my sensitive sit-bones into a rock-hard sliver-of-a-seat! And you wonder if I'm comfortable! I still was NOT going to wimp out.

With one, last, quizzical glance at me (smiling awkwardly, spinning my stubby little legs around and around on the peddles, and giving her a trembling thumbs-up), she grabbed the stereo remote, leaped astride her stationary-bike and started class.

"Alright, Welcome to Spin class! Everybody find a light but steady pace and warm up for a few minutes."

Okay, I can do this. I peddled casually at the easiest resistance level. It was great! I was almost starting to forget about my sore bottom. Then I glanced around the room at everyone else. If we had been on real bikes, riding down the road, then I would have been left in a cloud of dust, miles behind the rest of the class. Everyone else's legs were churning and spinning so fast, all I could see were rippling quads and flying Nike swooshes going around and around in a blur. With a grunt I picked up my pace.

After we warmed up, the instructor had us all take our pulse for about five seconds.

"Now, after a good warm-up you should be at about an eleven or twelve. Start counting... now." She held two fingers to her neck and looked at the watch on her other wrist. After about five seconds, she said, "Stop. Were you up where you need to be?" She turned to me, "What did you get?"

I wiped about a pint of perspiration off my face, and between wheezing gasps for oxygen, I said, "Six... (gasp) teen..." Sweat continued to drip off the tip of my nose and drench my t-shirt.

"Well... You're a little high, but THAT'S OKAY!" She turned back to the rest of the class and started to explain the evening's workout. We were going to do an interval endurance ride. Sounded lethal to me.

The intervals corresponded with the music tracks. For one song we rode light and fast, then for the next song we cranked up the resistance and rode hard and steady. We did some songs standing up, some up then down then up again, and then back to light and fast. I tried the best I could and made it to the end (barely).

By the time we'd cooled down and dismounted our bikes to stretch out, my Redskin Weightlifting Club t-shirt was soaked and so was the backside of my pants. My legs were wobbly; I tried to stretch them best I could. The instructor came over and asked me what I thought of the class.

"Well... I haven't been on a bike since I was probably 12, so it was a little challenging, but just a little. I'm a weightlifter!" I told her, pointing to my t-shirt, trying to make myself appear less of a weakling. "I'm not used to the whole bike riding thing. I usually bench-press bikes. Motorbikes. That's probably why my arms are so stubbed down. Having short limbs is actually beneficial in the weight room, if you didn't know... Well, thanks for the class!" I turned and headed for the door, leaving a stream of sweat-drippings behind me.

She called after me, "Will you be back? It only gets better from here!"

I could only imagine what "better" might entail. Oh, what the heck! "Yeah! I'll be back!" And with that, I shuffled my aching buttocks out the door.