Do you think we haven't seen you scowling in the door during the final minutes of our line dancing class on Monday nights?
Yeah, I'm talking to you.
Your expressions fairly shout, "They call THAT exercise?" I think I've even caught a couple of you rolling your eyes at one another. You huddle outside the door, peering in the window impatiently every couple of minutes, waving your towels and your water bottles and stretching every now and then.
Tonight we get word that we have to end our class five minutes early so you can line your little trikes up. Excuse me, but are you MORE entitled to your sixty minutes than we are? We pay the same dues. We had 17 in our line dancing class tonight. How many of you spinners showed up? It was almost a moot point, because I had the opportunity to run over your skinny little instructor in the parking lot. I still owe her one for that last step aerobics class of hers that I went to. Emphasis on last.
I know for certain that we don't burn nearly the number of calories that you do.
But how about we do this:
You wear your little spandex size twos and haul your pretend bicycles to a country and western bar somewhere near Atlanta, and we'll see who comes out of there alive.
Boot scoot boogie this.