The Chicken

What do you call them in the dark?

“What’s blue and not very heavy?” A chipper blonde with defined arms asked, her high ponytail slapping her back like it had a rhythm all its own. Her eyes sparkled, and she smile radiated like she was  auditioning for a tooth paste commercial.

No one answered. Only the soft hum of turbulent techno filled the silence, the beat pulsating awkwardly beneath the tension.

“Light blue!” she announced, leaning casually against her bike, propping her elbow on the seat.

I had to admit, she was confident. But it was the kind of confidence that made you squirm—like the kid who proudly announces to his teacher that his dad farts really after they eat tacos. I couldn’t decide if she was fully present, blissfully unaware or just on some other plane entirely. But either way, here we were.

Without pause, she continued. “What do you call an egg from a bad chicken?”

I waited for someone to respond. The silence stretched out like a hair scrunchy about to snap. I could feel myself inching toward the responsibility of sparing this woman’s feelings. Should I answer?

No.

I adjusted my grip on the handlebars and pretended to read the jumble of letters and numbers on my monitor. I focused on anything but her. A tiny tingle of irritation arose in my chest. Why didn’t the club warn us about a substitute instructor?Change is hard for me. My brain is already on overdrive most days and external continuity is my saving grace.

“A deviled egg!” she said, throwing her hands in the air and giving herself a high five. I smiled and forced a laugh-hollow, polite the kind of laugh TV anchors give each other when a segment nose dives.

I could already tell this class wasn’t going to be for me, but my people-pleasing neurons were fired up anyway. Little electric zaps urged me: Don’t hurt her feelings. Just stay.

“She’s just trying to get people to lighten up,” I told myself. “Stop being so judgmental. Give her a chance.” I eased myself back into the seat and continued to pedal.

Another joke. She wasn’t done.

“What do you call a chicken afraid of the dark?”

A part from an old man giving a cough in the back row, the room remained painfully silent.

“A chicken!” she exclaimed, unfazed, her smile just as bright as before.

It was then I realized: this woman was built differently. She wasn’t on a different plane at all. She was blissfully aware.

And here we were.

This woman was unapologetically herself. She could handle failure, shrug off judgement and keep going. My feelings shifted from irritation to awe.

It took real guts to stand in front of a spinning class of impatient, cranky Miami people and be vulnerable. Miami humor is not easy, but here she was cracking corny jokes in the face of apathy. 

As I pedaled under evolving LED lights and defining techno I realized something simple yet profound: she was the chicken. 

No matter the environment, Light or dark… she stayed true to herself, unbothered by others’ reactions. She embodied what we all want: solid internal confidence. 

I dwelled on this thought the rest of class. Partly because I admired her, but mostly because the workout was horrendous, and I needed to dissociate. The music gave me flashbacks of suffocating in the crowds at Ultra Music Festival 2013.

That’s a story for another time.

When class ended, I left inspired. I had a new life goal. I wanted to be the chicken.

Listens to “I’m like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado