Since moving to New York, I have had a lot of life experiences. I've become friends with Steve, the 86-year-old half-blind man who lets me hold his dog every time we're at Starbucks together while he tells me stories about when he worked at LIFE and I explain how TIME's iPad app works. I've attempted to put my contacts on in the dark at 5 a.m., which instead resulted in me scratching my cornea and showing up at an eye doctor like a lost little puppy with a swollen eye, but leaving content, knowing I now go to the same optometrist as Kanye and Kim. I've even survived Zayn quitting One Direction so, yeah, friends, I've seen some things.
On top of all that, I've lost 20 pounds.
My weight loss can probably be attributed to a few different things -- like, being forgetful and living on the top floor of a six-floor walk-up. Or, becoming irrationally obsessed with Bikram Yoga as well as discovering I love to put kale on literally everything I eat. And, you know, it should also probably be attributed partially to the fact I no longer let Zach Groth make me take Fireball shots at 8 a.m.
A photo of Zach and I at 8 a.m. the day we both moved out of our college town. After drinking beers in the parking lot of The Chug until 3 a.m. while sending selfies to my mother, he then hazardously drove to my house in the morning to force me to take shots of Fireball before I went to the airport because we thought we'd never see each other again. (Spoiler alert: we saw each other again).
Zach and I last weekend at a rooftop bar in Manhattan, where I am 20 pounds lighter, but still doing shots of Fireball (although not at 8 a.m. because I purposefully told Zach the wrong address to my apartment for the first three months I lived here to ensure that would never happen again. I believe that decision has attributed greatly to both my weight loss and sanity as a human being).
Also, no, we aren't dating.
So, yes -- all of these things have really contributed to me becoming a healthier person, especially considering for awhile in college, my diet consisted of tootsie rolls, coffee and the terrible water-downed beer served every week at Penny Pitchers. But, honestly, I don't think anything motivates me to work hard during my fitness classes more than the fact that I've fallen in love with multiple of my work-out instructors.
My best friend Chelsea and I belong to the greatest thing ever called Class Pass. Basically, for ridiculously cheap (for New York City), we can go to all these different studios throughout the city up to three times a month. These fitness classes range from CrossFit to Zumba to kickboxing to pole dancing -- really, the options are endless and it's probably one of the best ways I was able to learn my way around New York. When I first moved here, I'd force myself to sign up for interesting-sounding classes far away from my Upper East Side apartment, then would have to figure out how to get there all by myself. This helped me not only assimilate to New York City living much, much faster than I'd expected, but it was also how I became re-enthralled with yoga, gained the ability to do more than one push-up and learned if a guy claims he "loves to be the only man in a kickboxing class full of women because then he looks strong," that I can embarrass the hell out of him with my highly superior roundhouse kick.
More importantly, this is also how I met Andrew.
andrew* // the cycling instructor from hipster heaven
*Not his real name because he probably knows how to use the Internet and I still want to go to his classes without him thinking I am a crazy human being.
After a particular scary experience at a ballet studio in the East Village (right across from Brandy the psychic!) I'm fairly certain doubled as a drug drop off, I was hesitant to go to classes alone for awhile. But, when I found a class on Class Pass titled "Kanye vs Kanye," I didn't really care where it was -- I just knew I had to be there.
On the day of the class, I was not only pleasantly surprised to learn I was not entering a sketchy place, I was straight-up stoked about the studio. I was astounded as I entered a pitch-black room lined with stationary bikes in a V-formation where the only light came from two giant screens at the front of the room playing Kanye music videos on repeat.
I'm not entirely sure what heaven looks like, but I believe it's probably somewhat similar to this.
I was beyond happy to be there, but the only problem I had now was figuring out how to set up the bike. I'm pretty sure the last time I'd taken a cycling class was when the Zumba classes were full during Ball State's Welcome Week and my other best friend Anna and I were so upset at being forced out of our favorite class into cycling, we didn't even bother to learn how to set up the bikes.
I must have looked very similar to how I looked when I walked into an eye doctor blinking rapidly in confusion because, from behind me, I suddenly heard a male voice ask, "Can I help you with your bike?" I turned around and, honestly, my jaw dropped. In front of me was the maybe the most beautiful man I'd ever seen (and, remember, friends -- I've seen Zayn Malik).
Well, to be honest, the first thing I saw when I turned around was not the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. It was actually a giant wolf. And, that's because Andrew, as I would later learn his name was, has a giant wolf tattoo on his jugular, which was equally the most terrifying and hottest thing I'd ever been attracted to.
With a friendly voice and the confident ease that comes from someone who has both a sleeve full of tattoos and ridiculously toned calves, Andrew introduced himself, helped me set up my bike, then hopped up onto his at the front of the room. The next 45 minutes were spent simultaneously watching Kanye do his thing on-screen while watching Andrew do his thing on the bike, where he'd occasionally yell out phrases like "Never f--- nobody without telling me" and "What she order, fish fillet?!"
This, friends, is definitely what heaven looks like.
Because Class Pass only allows you to go to the same studio up to three times a month, I carefully chose which classes I would attend at that studio because, obviously, they all had to be Andrew's. This is how I found myself in the middle of a Coachella themed class, where Andrew wore a turban and glittery tattoos over his real ones, as well as a Pop Punk class, where he wore jorts and I probably had a small heart-attack. Each time I attended the studio, I'd have him set up my bike, both because I still couldn't figure out how to do it and also because I looked forward to those few minutes where we would chat, then I'd fantasize about what my mother would say when I brought home a man with a neck tattoo.
And, then, because it is 2015 and I am a huge creep and had maybe drank a few too many margaritas with Chelsea and Zach one night, I found his Instagram. Understandably and expectedly, there were a lot of photos of him biking. There were a lot of photos of the studio. There were a lot of photos of him kissing his dog and my heart melted.
But, there were also a lot of photos of him kissing the other male cycling instructor from the studio.
My heart exploded.
When Zach started his new job, he met one of his co-workers who he said I absolutely had to meet. "Honestly, Jen," he told me, "hanging out with Liz is literally like hanging out with you." And, he was right. When Liz and I met, we had so much in common and talked for so long about our mutual love of Kappa Delta, One Direction and hipsters that we didn't even realize Zach had left us at the bar.
Liz and I, throwing what we know in the middle of Barfly.
I only tell this story because 1. I'm low-key obsessed with Liz and want the whole world to know about it and 2. because, at one point in the night, Liz asked me what my type of guy was and I replied "Probably gay." Which, is true -- I'm hopelessly attracted to men with killer cheekbones who are also attracted to men with killer cheekbones -- and, unfortunately, Andrew was no exception. As it would turn out, he is happily married to the other male cycling instructor and, although my heart breaks every time I go to his class (especially during Big Sean themed cycling when he rapped Kanye's verse in "Mercy"), him and his husband are the actual cutest couple ever. I am extremely happy for them as I'm sure is my mother, who does not have to deal with me introducing her to my significant other with a neck tattoo (yet).
Luke* // the never-aging yoga instructor
*Not his real name because he definitely knows how to use the Internet.
On top of paying for Class Pass each month, I'm also a member of a Bikram Yoga studio. While it's significantly less affordable than Class Pass, it's a membership I use daily and has allowed me to become a more flexible, stronger and relaxed person (although, really, I grew up in northern Idaho, I'm so relaxed I often forget to wear shoes). My studio has four locations and, while I generally go every morning to the one right by my apartment, I got off work early one day, enabling me to make a class at the studio located downtown where, not to name drop or anything, but Idina Menzel also practices. Because I've become the type of person who just casually carries a yoga mat and spare pair of booty shorts around constantly, I was quickly able to change, head into the hot room, scour the hot room quickly for Idina, then prepare myself for the next 90 minutes.
And, that's when Luke walked in.
The first thing I noticed about Luke was his tattoo of a pegasus on his inner arm. The second thing I noticed about Luke were his abs, which, to be honest, were more out-of-this-world than a pegasus and, I'm not sure if it was the pegasus or the abs, but during those next 90 minutes, I simultaneously had the best Bikram practice of my life and also completely became enamored with Luke. Not only was he the best instructor I'd had so far because he helped me correct several of my postures, but he also made me laugh. Throughout the class and especially while we were holding very difficult poses, he'd make us close our eyes and say things like "We're doing this with our eyes closed so you can practice for when you're doing this drunk at a BBQ." Due to my college history of switching the music to Zumba songs at parties and leading "classes" with Anna almost every weekend at the Rex Street house, it was pretty clear Luke knew me on a spiritual level and I continued to sign up for his class at every possible opening.
Now, in Bikram, the posture you do the most often throughout the class is savasana. Savasana is where you literally lay on your back not moving, eyes open, breathing deeply and reflecting on how your body has supported you thus far (or, if you're like me during particularly rough classes, how goddamn hot the room really is). In the practice, you hold this posture between every other posture in the floor series for at least 20 seconds, but the longest it's held is for two full minutes between the standing and floor series. It's a time for your body to restore itself, appreciate the hard work you've just accomplished and allow yourself to prepare for the final 30 minutes in an 105 degree room.
This is also the time that Luke decides to give us really good advice, like "If you take things one at a time, you can finish all of it. This applies to both yoga poses and containers of Pringles." or "No matter what you do, you'll never be the strangest person on the L train." It was during one of these savasana's where he proceeded to tell us about how, after being the least athletic person in his entire high school, he went back for his reunion and, after practicing Bikram for 7+ years, was now in better shape than most of them.
"Of course," he said in his calm, yoga-like voice, "that's not saying much, considering we're all 40 now."
The main point about savasana is that you are not supposed to move at all, but when Luke casually dropped that he was 40, I literally sat up in shock, then had to embarrassingly pretend I just really needed water. Because, honestly, between the abs and the pegasus tattoo and the fact that he for some reason reminds me slightly of a god-like centaur, I thought Luke was maybe 28, 29 tops. As I lowered myself back down into savasana, I sadly came to the realization that I was much too young to be dating a 40-year-old and, also, that I'd likely be paying the Bikram Yoga studio $140 every month for the rest of my life so I too will look like I'm in my 20s for potentially ever.
So, falling for the instructors has been working well for my fitness motivation, but between the age difference and, you know, the married/wrong-gender issue, it's not going so hot for the actual dating aspect. However, neither is the other subgroup of guys I've somehow stumbled my way into going on dates with -- doctors.
NOT ZACH GROTH // THE tinder DOCTOR
A few weeks ago, I was at a Starbucks waiting for my friend Steve and his dog to arrive and entertain me when I realized I was shivering. Like, a lot. Also, my face was getting really hot and my body was burning up and suddenly, I realized I had a fever, a situation I no longer know how to combat because I used to just lay in bed watching One Direction music videos until Zayn's cheekbones soothed me and helped me ride it out, but since the break-up, that is just no longer an option. As I was sitting there shivering, I realized I was supposed to go to Luke's yoga class later that day and, not wanting to miss out on whatever tid-bit of life advice he was going to dole out during savasana, I Googled "Can you do hot yoga with a fever?"
Before the search results even loaded, the woman next to me leaned over and said, "No. Go home."
Whenever I feel like I am dying, the first people I tell are Zach and Ashley. I'm not really sure what the purpose of this is because Zach is definitely not responsible enough to take care of me and Ashley, who probably is, lives in the Midwest. However, the three of us use our group text as a sounding board for various problems all the time. For example, Zach recently informed us that I am his emergency contact for when he flys, a position I do not feel qualified for and, considering the kind of things he gets into on airplanes, am actively looking for someone to replace me. Another example -- when I was leaving the Starbucks at the urging of that poor woman, I sent the two of them a text that described my fever and all the symptoms I was currently feeling in great detail.
This is all I received back.
If you follow my blog, you may recall my previous story about me dating a doctor and the date going super well, partly because of my ability to stumble my way into a solid math joke and seem like a very smart human being. Despite the small texting mishap we had after our date where I believed I was texting Zach Groth instead of him, I was kind of looking forward to seeing him again.
Until.
Until NOT ZACH GROTH in my phone got weirdly persistent about wanting me to come stay with him in Brooklyn. Like, so persistent that it got strange, yet not as strange as when I once again actively refused and he insinuated in much more graphic terms than I feel comfortable stating on my blog that he would just think about me while doing specific activities to himself later that evening.
To which I decided -- no more dates with NOT ZACH GROTH.
I then proceeded to tell everyone except for Chelsea, Zach and Ashely that I broke up with him because he had a large forehead (also, true). Also, dating someone titled NOT ZACH GROTH in my phone was giving me a lot of anxiety, though clearly not as much anxiety as I was giving NOT ZACH GROTH by refusing to text him back.
Despite him being 28 and a real-life doctor and me being 23 and sometimes eating a spoonful of almond butter for dinner, I think I may have been the more mature human in this relationship.
After the disaster that was NOT ZACH GROTH, I thought maybe I should take a break from dating doctors. Instead, this led me to smiling at a man in a bar, him buying all my drinks, then after telling him where I worked, him casually dropping the fact that he was a dermatologist for half of my company's employees. (I verified this because I am a journalist and also because I am awkward and demanded his business card, citing the logic that, if my co-worker's insurance works there, then mine should too and I probably need to get a dermatologist in the city. Upon awakening the next day, I decided I'd actually prefer to have a different dermatologist than the man I met at Barfly and also maybe someone who knows what HIPAA is).
So, now, really -- I am done with doctors (sorry, Mom). If anyone knows any yoga instructors that aren't old or hipsters with neck tattoos of wolves (again, sorry, Mom) that aren't married, please, let me know.
Until then, I'll be at Starbucks, hanging out with my 86-year-old friend Steve and eating kale.