Last night’s insomnia was sponsored by Moth in the Bedroom, Cousins Who Could Not Catch Moth in the Bedroom, and Necessary Confirmation of Death for Moth in the Bedroom. Coffee will be my best friend today as I help Zealot Sister’s kids shove ten days of accumulated summertime ephemera into too-small suitcases and drive from the Cape to Logan airport. Today is my last day making sure four kids have three squares. Today is my last chance to create memories that will outlast the stretches of time these cousins don’t see each other. Today is my third day of spinning.
I’m at it again: the loathsome exercise I burn more calories complaining about than doing. This is my first experience at one of these boutique cycling torture classes and so far I’ve learned that the price of spinning is directly proportional to the volume of the dance track. It’s also darker than a nightclub. A physically perfect, fast-pedaling lunatic guides us up and down simulated hills, encouraging us to risk certain facial trauma to include arm exercises. I fake my turns on the resistance knob.
“Woo fucking hoo, you crazy batch of minivan moms. You just cycled absolutely no where in Dracula’s exercise studio,” I scream-think as I dismount early, too pooped to stay for the cool down set accompanied by base-heavy Beyoncé orgasm riffs. I’ve seen you Soul Cycle sisters on Facebook all sweat-dreamy and thankful. That’ll never be me. And honestly, I wonder what the hell is in your water bottles. Almost always chipper and annoyingly upbeat, at the 43rd minute of group exercise I hate everyone. Replacing venomous retorts to, “HOW WAS YOUR RIDE?” with normal responses requires the strongest level of verbal Spanx for me.
It’s also possible I’m tired. Graduation season with late night parties, umpteen speeches, and too many Chardonnays was followed by a whirlwind trip to the Poconos for Taiwanese Family Camp. Which is totally a thing. A thing that we did. Bernie was their keynote speaker and somehow managed to give a lecture about Plastic Surgery that included only two sets of boobs and one severed arm. Our kids got to see their Dad at his bow-tied, smartypants best, and then we raced to the Cape where Grandparents were waiting with Zealot Sister’s kids for fireworks. It’s been three squares for dozens of people since then, and the occasional wee hour insect hunt and murder.
After this round trip to Logan, summer really begins for me. Theme: get your own damn sandwich. Also, naps. And let’s be honest, more spinning at Dracula’s Rave. Because all of us should aspire to the physique of these fast pedaling lunatics. Left right left right left right left right.
Jumpin’Jehosaphat – those Draculas would be the death of me. Before the kids grew up, the family had a number of family friends whose mostly mothers, were frenzied participants of all things athletic – especially marathon running – which is what 26 miles or something ludicrous like that? Holy Smokes! You’re a doctor Britt – I swear that a Dracula’s body chemistry changes. They look at you like a raptor considering its next meal. Yikes! I stay away from them.
I went back this morning… and left early again. I cannot make it to the end and wonder if it’s necessary to feel like you might throw up. I cringed at every woo hoo. I might be the only girl in that class who feels guiltier LEAVING the studio than going in because my interior monologue is so mean mean mean. Back to the pool…
You are going to hate me for this comment but if your want to change your self-talk and make it positive, there are some issues you need to address. 😦 I’m 58 this year and I find that maintenance and repair of this body has changed immensely. When I was in my 20’s and 30’s I could and did sometimes do very physical work. One job was delivering kegs of beer to taverns in the summer heat of 90 F – 145 pounds in each hand and carrying up and down stars and stacking in basements where I was doubled at the waist because of low clearance. No issues and slept like a log at night. And every day I got stronger. When a leg or arm or whatever got injured or broken or banged – it was healed good as new in short order.
I still feel like that young adult in my head. But my body is not up to it. I recently got a hernia beside my colostomy and it popped out over night – about half the size of my fist. I went to emerg and they popped it back in and gave me a consult with a surgeon. The surgeon looked and shrugged and told me that at my age the risk was high of many complications in surgery and I was to just pop it back in when needed and don’t lift anything heavy. The time for fixing anything except what was a threat to life or quality of life was over.
And my muscles do not grow as fast or as big. Quality of life is now defined differently in terms of musculature and physical abilities. I felt that blow hard as I used to be 6 foot 3 inches and very strong – about 250 pounds. That said Britt, when I have done some light exercise and eaten well, I feel just as relaxed and appreciate of life as I did when I was 25 and had busted my butt. I no longer can keep up physically to they younger set but I find that not only do I not need to, but I am considerably wiser and more experienced than they are. We can out think them at every turn Britt and they will try to make us feel bad for our inability to keep up physically but they are hiding from our brain power. 😀 That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.
Pingback: Cancer, Facebook, and Harley Quinn’s Ass | Blooms and Bubbles
Pingback: Things I Think While Wearing Lycra | Blooms and Bubbles