Evil exercise genius

Day off work today, tra la, tra la, so I slept in a little bit, did a teensy bit of writing and then went to the gym, feeling pretty durned chipper. Until I saw that Batshit Crazy Lady was leading the 10am sculpting class. I stumbled into her spin class once a couple of months ago after a particularly grueling work day, and if I hadn’t been a spaghetti noodle by the end of it, I might just have dismounted and slapped her. She pretended we were racing a stage of the Tour de France and gave a running commentary on each hill and valley, complete with stats on the leaders and trivia from her own experience watching the Tour in person. So-and-so is very charming, some racers drink scooners of beer at the end of the day, she has autographed t-shirts from riders etc, etc. We had a competition to see who would win the imaginary green shirt for getting to the top of the highest imaginary hill. I stopped and had a pint of cider at an imaginary pub.
So today my nice gentle sculpting class began with a musical prelude to the 2008 Beijing Olympics—apparently they released one of the songs this week to get people in the mood. It didn’t get me in the mood for my class, however—I actually groaned out loud and had to pretend to be clearing my throat so as not to offend Batshit Crazy Lady, who apparently has no idea just how aggravating she is. We did seven sets of push ups, we had to do squats in time to that nasty song about ‘lady lumps,’ we waved big heavy bars around for the benefit of our triceps—which, we learned, are the size of a stick of string cheese—and got a lecture about skin elasticity. "You don't have to do everything I am doing," she said as she launched into another set of push ups. "I am your sculpting waitress; I am just making suggestions."
By the end I was thinking that perhaps she is some sort of evil genius, because she makes people so mad they keep lifting those weights just to concentrate on something other than her chirping commentary.
And then she tried to convince us to follow her over to the other studio for her spin class, starting in half an hour.
“Just consider it,” she said, as damp women with strands of hair flopping in their mouths openly groaned at the thought. “Well, maybe next week.”