The thing I love about living in New York City is that it often feels like, when you’re feeling low (brought down, in this case, by right wingers responding to the shooting with a double down) the city conspires to cough up a moment so bafflingly strange and wonderful that you can’t help but feel better.
Today, that happened. I was going to my spin class, and I got there a little early to set up my bike and when I arrived, the most douche-bro thing that ever happened occurred right before my eyes. In the room, all by himself, was this bro having a one-man spin class. In and of itself, not so unusual. But usually people who do that are on one of the regular bikes, but no, this guy was up on the stage on the instructor’s bike.
So I open the door and am nearly knocked down by ear-splittingly loud cheesy rap music. Now, most spin classes are loud, but this was an order of magnitude above that, closer to a Guitar Wolf concert than a spin class. I had an irrepressible urge to cover my ears. But I needed to set up my bike, so I quickly did that. This guy continued, utterly oblivious—or perhaps excited?—to have a witness. He was zipping along, pumping the air with his fist and trying to sing along. Naturally, the music shifted to the crappy Jersey Shore-style dance music they try to pass off as “house” these days.
His friend came in. They nodded the bro nod and fist bumped. I tried really hard not to laugh. I debated taping the whole thing on my phone and decided against it. The guy was guilty of being a douche bro, not murdering kittens. I didn’t want to hold him up for an object of ridicule, at least with his face attached. So instead I scurried out of the room to await the beginning of the real class in blessed silence. And as I walked out of the room, I had but one thought.
Thought I’d share.