You spin me right round, baby

Have you ever heard the expression/advice, “do one thing per day that scares you”?

Why would I want to do that? Why would anyone want to do that? I hate being scared. I don’t watch horror films, even around Halloween. I try to avoid walking anywhere in the dark alone. Roller coasters and other amusement park rides are totally off the table for me. I am, for all intents and purposes, a true-blue, card-carrying wimp.

But, I also like trying new things, especially if there’s the chance I might really enjoy them. I recently decided that I am going to do one thing every week that I have never done before, for at least an hour, and see if any new hobbies or passions arise. At best, I’ll transform myself into a person with even more diverse interests. At worst, I’ll get some amusing fodder for my blog. 

This Monday, I went to a spin class. I am sure that I am not alone in my stereotyping of “spin” – that it takes place in a dance studio, full of soccer mom types in varying colors of spandex. It’s a fad exercise program, I believe, where people use expensive stationary bicycles to pedal very fast for 45 minutes. I pictured all of these classes taking place in the middle of the work day, making this fad inaccessible to anyone other than the stay-at-home-Mom set. 

Exercise classes in general make me very nervous- I have always thought that walking into one that already has an established clique of fitness must be the most intimidating thing that you can put yourself through at 6:15 on Monday morning. However, my friend Erin had convinced me that spin classes are fun, and she attends this one, so I assumed some of my anxiety would be calmed by having a friendly face there. 

Next thing I discovered is that spin class has a pre-registry, which must be done on the rec center’s website. Spoiler alert: small municipalities aren’t working with the latest and greatest mobile-friendly web tools. After a couple of frustrating hours at work, trying to find the link to sign myself up for the class while simultaneously serving beers to Denver Bronco fans, teachers on their day off, and four drunk hunters from Minnesota, I still hadn’t figured it out, so I gave up. I decided I would march into the gym at 6:15 (let’s be real: 6:05, because if you know me, you know I live by the motto “if you’re on time, you’re late”) and see if there were any spots available. 

Next spoiler: no way. 

Apparently the Monday class is always full, all eleven spots taken, and since Erin had managed to sign up the night before, my first attempt at spinning was not looking good. Except that by class time, 6:15 on the nose (RESPECT, Helen. Respect.), Erin had yet to show. Upside: I was going to get a spot in the class. Downside: I was going to have to do this Thing I’ve Never Done Before alone. (When Erin did show, it turned out that she had forgotten her shoes, and since apparently it’s not considered kosher to participate in a spin class while sporting Ugg boots, she let me keep her spot.)

This is where my presumed stereotypes about spin class (and workout classes in general) participants started to go off the rails. For starters, half of the class was male. Men getting up at 6 am to ride stationary bikes. Even more interesting is that they were all significantly older than myself, and mostly older than the very fit women in the class. (Now that I’m writing this down, perhaps this is not such a mystery after all...) I believe I was close to, if not actually, the youngest person on a bike that morning. I was also, as predicted, the only female not sporting some form of spandex pant. I cracked some self-deprecating jokes about how no one wants to deal with a newbie on a Monday morning (Garfield HATES Mondays, am I right?), they chuckled politely and assured me it was fine. Someone handed me some 4 lb weights (what?! I thought this was cycling), and we were off to the races. 

Without going into a play by play (spin by spin?) of how the class went, let me say that my ass was kicked. As someone who considers herself relatively fit (I run about 10-20 miles per week, hike sometimes, mountain bike, and have a labor-intensive day job), I assessed the room (and the instructor, a 5 foot tall woman who looks to be about my mother’s age) and thought I would be fine, I would make sure they knew I was a first-timer, and they would all be moderately impressed by my abilities and level of fitness. However, when I was sweating harder than a menopausal woman in Florida, I looked around the room to smiling, mostly dry faces. These people are animals. On top of biking continuously at varying levels of resistance, we also continued to pedal while doing bicep curls and shoulder presses.

To wrap it up, things hurt today (as I’m writing this, it is two days since I took the class). But I didn’t fail. And I didn’t die of embarrassment. And I’ve also signed up for a class tomorrow morning. 6:15 am. Spin classes will no longer be something I’ve never done before, but they are apparently something I’ll be doing again. Luckily, I have some colorful spandex in the closet, just waiting for my second go-around.

Let's Touchdown a Home Run

I was at Target the other day (this fact should shock exactly zero of you, since I love that store and spend most of my hard-earned cash there, so much that several friends have even suggested an intervention), browsing for a new top to wear to a holiday party. I stumbled upon what we'll call the "not quite juniors, not quite adults" section of the women's wear department. There, I spotted some t-shirts, which from a distance looked cute and very much my style - crew neck, sporty, football-striped type cotton things. I walked over to them, anticipating something I might be able to wear while watching some playoff games this weekend.

Instead, what I found was this:

 

Oh, I discovered. They have cute little sayings on the front. Let's see what they've got.

"Rooting for the commercials" is sort of silly, and also a nod to all the people, men and women, who watch the Superbowl just to see the preposterous amount of money that corporations spend on a new ad, to be revealed to the largest television audience of the year. Sure, that's funny. However, they aren't selling this shirt in the men's section. They wouldn't dare. Men watch football to root for the football teams, after all (at least, that's what modern popular culture dictates). It's the women who can only be lured to the screen during a sporting event by the promise of amusing advertisements, right?

I sighed and continued to flip through the rack. 

Of course, a shirt designed in a football style, but only highlighting the half-time entertainment. Because that's why a female would watch the Superbowl- to see if Lady Gaga is going to show up in an outfit made entirely out of non-clothing materials, or if there's going to be a wardrobe malfunction or some obvious lip-syncing. Flashy lights and entertainment are all we women care about! Thank goodness there's a break in the boring sporting match to let us ladies have something to enjoy. Again, this is a product that would never be sold in the men's department. Real men don't care about the half-time show. They just use that time to refill their beer buckets and holler at their girlfriends to bring some more snacks, right?

You have got to be kidding me. Let me get this right, here - young women are supposed to dress in a cute, football-inspired jersey t-shirt for the big game. But there has to be a saying on the front, preferably one that puts us in our place and makes sure that everyone at the Superbowl party knows that despite the style of clothing, we are still just pretty little idiots. The only message that this shirt conveys is that women know nothing about professional sports, and that fact is something adorable that should be celebrated. "It's so silly and cute that I don't know the difference between football and baseball!" If you're wearing this shirt, you might as well have a sign on your back that says "I'm just here so you can slap my ass and send me back to the kitchen for more brewskis". 

I really thought we were past this, Target. There is no practical reason that women should pretend to be ignorant about professional sports, or that it should be considered charming and attractive to be dumb. We live in the United States of America. Everyone knows the difference between a touchdown and a home run. Everyone. We do a disservice to the demographic that these clothes are geared towards (I would say probably the 18-28 set) by continuing to promote the concept that cluelessness and femininity are one in the same. 

I'm certainly not saying that every woman should know professional sports inside and out. If you aren't a fan, that's a personal choice. I just can't believe this clothing was ever made. If a woman doesn't like football, then she doesn't have to dress for the game. And she certainly shouldn't find that her game-inspired choices include clothing that suggests any level of idiocy because of her disinterest. Nor should a woman who is a sports fan find that the only styles available to her at a large national chain are designed to depict her as silly and stupid. 

Here's an idea: let's treat women (and by extension, women's fashion) like they are intelligent, dynamic human beings who can be interested (or not) in any subject they like. Let's stop designing clothes for girls that suggest its cool, trendy, and attractive to be dumb. Maybe if we start there, society will eventually stop treating young women like they're uninformed, silly little girls who need to have even the most basic concepts explained. 

Girls, its ok to know about sports, and it's cute to be smart. Stop letting society take that away from you.