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I broke my vagina in spin class. No, it’s nothing like riding a bike!

My daughter talked me into doing a spin class with her. I’ve never done one before, but I imagined it was like riding a bike. How hard could it be?

First, you put on these special bike shoes that kind of feel like small ski boots when you walk in them. Then you get on the stationary bike and the shoes lock into the pedals. The instructor said it was to keep your feet from falling off, but I realized halfway through class, it’s really to keep you from running away.

The class started and the instructor turned the Hip Hop music up to ten and turned off all the lights. The place was pitch black with the exception of two lit candles on the instructor’s raised stage. It kind of looked like a Satanic worship studio.

Then she started yelling out instructions through an attached microphone and the class began peddling. She quickly began to speed up and I couldn’t hear a thing she was saying over the Devil Worship music, so I just mimicked everyone around me. I figured I would do what everyone else was doing. I didn’t hear her say, “Go at your own pace.”

Determined to prove that I was in great shape, I tried to keep up with the twenty-something girl in front of me who was peddling so fast it looked like her arse was chewing bubble gum.

Then the instructor shouted, “Push, push, push!” Which actually felt appropriate because the last time my Vajayjay felt this sore I was trying to push a head the size of a watermelon out of a hole the size of a Cheerio.

She yelled, “Stand up and get to the top of this hill!”

Which was the best part of the class because I forgot how hellishly hard a bicycle seat is. After five minutes I begin to feel chafing where there should never be any chafing.

Two minutes later she yells for us to sit back down. I discretely tried to adjust myself on the seat without feeling like I was getting kicked in the Vajayjay. I took the hand towel hanging from the front of the bike, folded it and putting it on my seat. It lasted until she screamed for us to stand and my towel hit the floor.

Remember, I am locked on this bike and I can’t bend over and pick up the towel. Now I have no way to wipe away the sweat that is burring my eyes.

I am burning at both ends. Literally!

I notice the class is standing and sitting over and over again while pumping their arms on the handlebars. I can’t hear what the instructor is saying but I am determined to keep up. It becomes a ten-minute punishment of – ride up hill – get sexually assaulted by a bicycle seat - ride up hill – get sexually assaulted by a bicycle seat - ride up hill – get sexually assaulted by a bicycle seat. 

Oh, and pump your arms like you love it.

I look around at the rest of the class and realize I’m the only one here who was born in the 60s. I really start to question my own judgment. 

When I told my daughter I wanted to spend some time with her I was thinking of going to lunch not reinacting the twelve hours of labour it took to bring her into this world.

After 45 grueling minutes it finally stopped. The instructor turned the lights back on and the music off. I forgot my feet were locked into the pedals and I jumped off the bike landing hard on the cross bar. Luckily my face was already soaking wet from the sweat so no one could see my tears.

When I got off the bike my legs were shaking so bad I felt like I was walking on the moon. I took off the shoes and painfully walked to the bathroom. Just when I thought the worst was over, I sat on the toilet and tried to pee.

I can only describe it as acid being poured over my chafed privates. 

I stopped the urine midstream and held it in… for four days! At one point I begged my daughter to take me to the hospital so I could get a catheter.

A full tube of Polysporin and an ice pack later, I could finally let a little pee out. 

Not enough to pass a drug test. But just enough so my bladder didn’t burst.

I found out after class that there are biking shorts with a padded seat (would have been nice to know) and eventually your Vajayjay ‘gets used to it.’ That’s never going to happen for me.

The next time I want to have mother- daughter time, I will be picking the activity. 

I hope she enjoys a good old-fashioned enema!

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