Page 2 of It's Not PMS, It's You

The fall to the floor was not graceful.

I banged my shoulder on the handlebars on the way down, slid off the bike sideways, and hooked my foot on top of the pedal. My other leg flew over my head and got wedged in between the bike seat and the drink holder.

Great.

Now, I had two wedgies.

Before I had a chance to untangle and upright myself, two hands gripped me from under my armpits and lifted me to my feet in one swift motion.

I looked up, dazed, confused, blinking a few times.

It was the guy who had been on the bike behind me. “Are you okay?”

There was genuine concern in his voice, but I was a big girl and could take care of myself.

Flustered, I said the first thing I could think of. “I do that all the time.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Of course.” He chuckled and grabbed my water bottle from the floor, sticking it back in the drink holder on my bike.

“Thank you.” I opened and closed my left hand, wincing from the pain.

He pointed to my wrist. “Get some ice on that.”

“Okay . . .”

It was good advice since my schedule was full today and a swollen wrist would throw everything out of whack.

I grabbed my towel hanging from the handlebars and wiped my forehead, preparing to leave the class early.

“Okay, bring it back down to level two as we start the cool down.” The instructor got off his bike and rushed over. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine.” I took a step toward the door.

“Hang on—I need to fill out an accident report. It’s gym protocol.”

I stopped and turned back. “There wasnoaccident.”

The instructor pointed to the wedgie maker. “I saw you fall off the bike.”

“You saw meget offthe bike.”

“Head first?”

I crossed my arms and winced from the pain. “Who wants to get off the bike like a normal person? Not me, I’ll tell you that much.”

He shook his head. “A report is necessary. Especially since it looks like you hurt yourself.”

This guy had no idea who he was dealing with.

I had an MBA from UCLA and have brought a conference room of testosterone-loaded men to their knees. This spinning class instructor was small potatoes on the way to becoming mashed.

“Fine.” I placed my hands on my hips and felt another bolt of pain from my wrist. “But just be forewarned that I will havea lotto say in that report of yours. We’ll need to discuss the class in general, your song choices, the specifications, aerodynamics, and comfort of the bikes, and your skills as a teacher and how they may or may not attribute to accidents and the likelihood of death.”

He just stared at me.

“Don’t worry, we should be able to avoid a lawsuit here and there’s a fifty-percent chance you’ll still have a job when all is said and done. So! Let’s get to that report. If we start now, it shouldn’t take more than four hours.” I crinkled my nose. “I’m a perfectionist and a little long-winded.”

More staring from him, but now his mouth was slightly open.