If you’re reading this, chances are a loved one has cornered you against your will to drone on about the merits of Peloton.
Come in. You are not alone.
“Isn’t it just an iPad welded onto a stationary bike and priced like a fully-loaded Kia Sorento?” you say sheepishly, fearing retaliation from Mr. Bore de France.
Your loved one looks at you as if you just called his baby ugly, or worse, insulted the boho-fit digital instructor he’s convinced wants to fuck him.
To his credit, he does look slimmer, but you’ve yet to determine if that’s a product of biking in place or it’s because he spent the entire month’s grocery budget on Peloton’s new premium feature in which an instructor sends you a lock of her hair for every personal record.
“It’s not a product, it’s a lifestyle,” he says sipping a sludgy shake and surveying the room for other upper-class white guys boring enough to slot a stationary bike into Personality Trait #1, barely edging out Goldendoodle Owner.
Before you can find a window so swan dive through, you are surrounded by a pack of Peloton owners yelling out their best finishes to no one in particular and scoffing at your free weight regiment like some antiquated witchcraft that must be rooted out for future generations of Oracle inside sales reps.
In this moment, you’ve never felt more alone. You briefly contemplate pawning your wife’s wedding ring to become a member of The Enlightened, but remember she left you months ago for someone with an All-Access membership.
This is rock bottom.
For those who’ve been put in this position, made to feel poor and inadequate by Peloton owners or suffocated by their smugness, take a deep breath, center yourself, and just remember: it’s a fucking stationary bike.