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Colder temperatures, snow in the forecast this weekend

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McStrategy: Burger chain McDonald’s lays out plan to reverse drop in visits

<p>I should&#8217;ve known better.</p><p>Whenever I whine about myself in any way &#8212; but usually in the way that reflects my dissatisfaction with body parts &#8212; my friend, Anne, who&#8217;s a very &#8220;put-up or shut-up&#8221; kind of gal, takes me to task.</p><p>I hate her.</p><p>I made the mortal error of reporting that after several years of running, my thighs still looked like two bruised summer squash, but paler. She strongly suggested a spin class. Which is to say she told me she was picking me up at 4:45 sharp, I was to be spin-ready, with a towel, water, money and an attitude the very opposite of my usual one. I tried to wiggle out of it by using my asthma, irritable bowel, hemorrhoids and bunion as an excuse, but she honked precisely at her pre-ordained pick up time and I slouched out to meet my sad destiny.</p><p>This&#8217;ll be fun, she said. You can do it, she said. It&#8217;s just like a regular bike ride, she said.</p><p>Liar.</p><p>I doubted her with every fiber of my being but let me say that I used to ride my pink banana seat Schwinn with the mod flower decals at break-neck speed up and down the hills of South Wilkes- Barre back when you could do that kind of thing and not get your walkie-talkie stolen.</p><p>Maybe I could do this, after all. I mean, I just have to rotate my legs, right?</p><p>The spin room was dark and very warm, just like hell.</p><p>There were steel-framed apparatuses that I assumed were bikes that go nowhere, but they looked like what the Sons of Anarchy might ride in their off-gang time. I tried to hop onto the seat. I needed a hoist. Apparently, one must self-size several aspects of the bike and since she force-fed this class to me, Anne was responsible for adjusting my &#8220;saddle,&#8221; handlebars and tension setting until it all read &#8220;Newbie Hobbit&#8221; in flashing red letters. Then, just like my worst nightmare ever, my feet were strapped into the peddles so there was no chance for escape.</p><p>The instructor, Michelle, was lovely: very sweet, yet authoritative, while spinning like a flying monkey through Oz.</p><p>What the hell was she saying?</p><p>I couldn&#8217;t hear her over the blood pounding in my ears and the sound of my own panting, wheezing, stark fear and sweat dripping from my eyeballs and earlobes and landing in a puddle around my funky bike thing.</p><p>I swept my gaze continuously between the clock on the wall and an elderly gentleman in the corner. If he could keep up with this Purgatory, then so could I.</p><p>Guess what?</p><p>No.</p><p>Anne was, of course, soaring along like the freaking Unicorn Princess she is; no perspiration, just a slight glistening scattered with glitter and hearts.</p><p>&#8220;Isn&#8217;t this fun?&#8221; she rhapsodized.</p><p>I whimpered: &#8220;How. Much. Longer?&#8221;</p><p>She said: &#8220;You&#8217;ve been on that bike seven minutes.&#8221;</p><p>That&#8217;s when I blacked out.</p><p>When I came to, I slid from that freaking &#8220;saddle,&#8221; using profuse perspiration and tears as the lubrication necessary to slither onto the floor, while my feet, still in stirrup mode, prompted me to momentarily recline upside down.</p><p>Finally free, I crawled out of that class, lacerated tail between my malformed vegetable-shaped legs. My nether region was aflame and screaming for mercy and it was my duty to take it home to a hot bath before it fell completely off.</p><p>So, if you see me this week and I&#8217;m walking like a doughnut with a bite taken out of it, you&#8217;ll know why. The only thing I want spinning in my life are my own wheels.</p><p>Aimlessly and fruitlessly. Theoretically and literally.</p><p>And most definitely not in a hot, dark room, listening to Metallica and wishing for a saddle covered in angel wings and a mattress.</p><style>
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<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta><p>Maria Jiunta Heck</p><p>Life Deconstructed</p></bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta><p>Maria Jiunta Heck of West Pittston is a mother of three and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life. Send Maria an email at mariajh40@msn.com.</p></shirttailMeta></div>

Life Deconstructed: Spinning toward nowhere and a certain death