I’ve been a member of a gym for about 15 years. The first gym that I joined was above of bodega on Broadway near 181st Street. It catered to Dominican weight lifters. A sign above the door  noted that members had to leave their guns at home. I worked out at the gym until I was nine months pregnant. Hip hop music and Telemundo on the TV. Loved it. The staff treated me like a princess.

When we moved out here, we joined a traditional gym. Over the years, I have pretty much stuck to the same workout regime. I get on the treadmill for 30-60 minutes. I either walk really fast or jog. I watch Kardashian re-runs and gossip shows. I sometimes do the kicky machine, as I call it. I don’t talk to anybody around me. My ear buds are in, and it’s total “me time.”

With the New Year here, everybody is doing the “New Year, New You” thing. The gym is packed. Nicorette sales are up. Everybody is talking about diets. Hopefully, everyone will give up by February.

I never bother with the “New Year, New You” crap. I’m a flawed human being, and I’ll remain one. However, this year I thought I would start a “New Year, New Steve” program. I won’t change, but I can make Steve change. Yay! And maybe if I make him do stuff, I’ll try new stuff, too.

So, last weekend, I signed us up for a spin class. I have never taken a spin class before. In fact, I’ve never taken any exercise class before. I was always terrified that I would be the weakest one in the class or that I would embarrass myself. Maybe I wouldn’t know the secret handshake. Wardrobe malfunction. Public vomiting. So many opportunities for social catastrophes. But maybe if I had a buddy, it wouldn’t be bad.

Steve wasn’t that thrilled that we were going to an exercise class at 9am on a Sunday morning, but he went along with it. We didn’t completely fuck up, and we got a good workout. I was sore for three days. Maybe I’ll even sign up for a class on my own next time.