Shouting Into an Echo Chamber

No one with an LGBTQ flag voted for Trump.

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When class ended, they fist bumped and stretched their legs and grabbed paper towels to wipe down their bikes. A couple of shouts of “good class,” and “thanks Jeff” and people filed out of the room. As they left, I gave a quick plug for my next class, “I’ll see y’all on Saturday at eight,” and I began mopping up the puddle under my bike. I sweat more than anyone. Yes, I work out hard, but so does everyone else. I’m just a sweaty dude.

To wit: eight years ago, after sweating through a class I didn’t instruct, a guy came over to me and said “Jeff, you’re a sweaty dude…” He quizzed me about how I kept my electrolytes in balance during an hour of profuse dripping.

I shut off the stereo, the fans, the Christmas lights that encircle the ceiling, and I plopped down in the room’s only chair to clock out. The time clock app is always a production. I gave myself an absurd password. Lots of switching between screens — caps, numbers, special characters and those special-special characters on the deepest screen. My fingers shake. I mistype. My phone locks up after an hour of blasting music. I mistype again. As I frustrate myself and earn a few extra pennies while repeatedly trying to enter my password, Kathy and Don stand over a bike and discuss…