workout

Spin Cycle

Sometimes E and I can’t believe we lived through our children’s baby and toddler years.  We see younger yet much more frazzled adults than we are everywhere and we pity those poor, sleep deprived bastards.  Without fail, we look at each other with looks of mixed sympathy, relief that we are no longer being bossed around by a 28 pound tiny human, and unadulterated panic at the thought that we could, technically, still be able to produce one of those needy, demanding 28 pound tiny humans.  I won’t lie.  I’ve thought about manually ripping out my own uterus numerous times, mostly in Wal-Mart.

I know, I know.  Your little angel is the light of your life.  You pity me and my boring, sleep filled existence.  Alone time to poop and shower?  Overrated.  You like the company anyway.  Sex with your significant other more than once a year?  Way overrated and that’s what got you into this, damn it.  Meal times where no one shits themselves or pukes (under normal circumstances)?  Where’s the excitement in that?  8 continuous hours of sleep?  That’s for pussies plus you’ll sleep when you’re dead.  We smug little shits sitting at the next table, eating a quiet meal with our teens and actually having a real conversation with them, are who you really pity.  I understand.  Been there, done that twice.

Don’t get me wrong, my kids are my greatest blessings.  We had fertility issues with both of them, life threatening medical issues after birth with both of them.  I did things I know I couldn’t do today, all in the name of having my own child.  I overcame extreme panic and claustrophobia to ride, unmedicated and strapped down, in a medivac helicopter to Dallas, Texas, to give birth to Gracie.  I’ve been told by a Doctor that Gracie probably wouldn’t live through the weekend and I somehow managed to not crawl into a corner and die myself.  I’ve watched Landon get other people’s blood pumped into him dozens, if not a hundred, times.  I changed his colostomy bags and E gave him his twice a week shots until he was almost 1 year old.  During all that, there was nowhere, NOWHERE, we wanted to be more, except for maybe trade places with the parents who took their children’s health for granted.

Some of you may be struggling today.  Maybe you’re buying dry shampoo by the case because you don’t have 90 seconds to take the world’s fastest shower.  Maybe you’re in a hospital room, answering the exact same questions for the 100th time for medical students who don’t look old enough to be your kid’s babysitter.  Maybe you’re about to lose your shit if you have to yell with your toddler one more fucking time because that little clepto Swiper is sneaking up on Dora’s ass once again.  When the hell will that bitch learn?

I’m here to tell you to keep your shit together.  Keep it together, sister, for all this will pass, and when it does, being a parent is glorious.  Yes, glorious!  You will one day be able to take hot showers for as long as your hot water heater can last.  You may even be able to simultaneously have sex AND a hot shower because you will enjoy sex again.  It’s not a myth!  Your husband may even have to invoke the 72 Hour Rule.  The 72 Hour Rule was created by E about 8 years ago and is the mandatory fluid recovery period required after 4 days of being at my sexual disposal so that he could possibly live to see the next week.

But none of that tops what I have experienced this week.  Brace yourselves.  Are you sitting down?  Sit down.  You can put lanolin on your nipples later.  Hell, do it and keep reading this.  It won’t be the first time a reader has rubbed their nipples while reading one of my blog posts but the restraining order and my therapist say it’s still too soon to talk about that.

But I digress, yet again.

We’re going to Universal Orlando next week on vacation.  Gracie came to me last week, panicked over the fact that she has not been saving her money to spend in the gift shops at the parks.  She asked if there were additional chores she could take on so she could earn more money than usual.  It was then that I had the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had.  I taught her how to do laundry.  Go ahead and hate, hater.  I’ll gladly take it.

I’ve been working out at night then I come home and take a shower.  A few nights ago, I almost sobbed with joy when I reached in the towel basket after an exceptionally long, hot shower (I know, now I’m just bragging) and saw clean towels not washed, dried, and folded by my own hands.  When I picked said towel up and it was STILL WARM, I did sob.  Like a marathon runner finally reaching the finish line.  True, this finish line took me 13 years to cross but it was worth every damned second of it when I was enfolded and caressed by clean, warm cotton.

Gracie and I have negotiated a rate of $3 per dried, folded load she brings upstairs from the basement.  I should be arrested for violating child labor laws, I’m so grossly underpaying her for this service, in my newly formed opinion.  But don’t tell her that.

I hope this post has encouraged you to keep your shit together today.  Don’t let that little fucker Swiper get the best of you because in 13 years you will be checking Google like I did this morning to see if he’s still even on television doing hood rat shit and paying your little angel an inordinately low amount of money to do your chores.  You’re welcome.

To ensure that I’m universally hated by unshowered Moms currently drinking cold coffee and rubbing lanolin on their nipples while reading this, I’m also paying Gracie 50 cents for each cup of coffee she reheats for me.  Between the reheated coffee and laundry, she just informed me that I owe her $37.

Best $37 I have ever spent.  Without a doubt.

Five Foot Rule

I went to the gym for the first time since October last night.  Since I was last there, offices have been built, personnel has changed, new rules have been added.  I was just relieved my membership card still worked.

I was on the elliptical, a bit more out of breath than usual but otherwise killing it considering I’ve been AWOL for months.  I was wearing my new headphones and enjoying some really kick ass music I added to my workout playlist, eyes glued to ESPN, as per usual.  A guy walked by, went out of his way to make eye contact with me, then motioned that he liked my hair.  I gave him a thumbs up and hopefully didn’t shout “thank you.”

I’ve gained at least 30 pounds since last fall and it shows but that one compliment had me thinking all the following throughout my 40 minute workout:

Guuuuurl, 30 pounds heavier and I’ve still got it.  It IS all about that bass.

Maybe E shouldn’t leave me alone on the back row to work out by myself.  Next time, he should carry me in like a caveman, set me down on the elliptical, pound his chest, and yell “Girl mine!”

Damn it, I forgot to wear my wedding ring.  How irresponsible.  Every man in here has noticed my lack of a ring by now.  There could be a feeding frenzy.  Innocent men could become so distracted, they get thrown violently from their treadmills and possibly maimed or killed and I have no one to blame but myself.  Get it together, Steph!

I didn’t even wear makeup today.  I’m a Sephora VIB Rouge member and I don’t even need all that shit.  Think of all the money and time I’ll save by not wearing makeup!

Wait a minute!  There’s that guy who hit on me, over by the weights.  He’s a trainer here.  Guess he’d better get his crush in check because he’ll be seeing a lot of me now that I’m working out again.  It’s gonna be hard on him.  I’ll try to dial it back but that’s like asking the sun to stop shining.

I wonder if any local stores stock graphic tees with “Sorry, I’m taken” on the front?  That would save a lot of time and heartache for these poor bastards.

Oooh, I should post about this on Facebook.  Wait, no.  I shouldn’t flaunt my natural beauty.  Cindy Crawford doesn’t do it and neither should I.  Don’t be that girl.

Oh, thank God.  Here comes E, he’s done with his workout.  I can get out of this meat market now.

As E handed me a wipe for my elliptical, he said “There’s a new sign posted above the wipe dispenser that just reads “Five Foot Rule.  Do you know what that is?”

I replied that I didn’t know but I’d Google it on the way home.  I threw my jacket on and quickly explained that I was the hunted, my pheromones were obviously out of control and it’d be wise to get me out of there PDQ before something unfortunate happened.  I sprinted toward the exit, alert and ready to dropkick rabid, love crazed male suitors as soon as they approached.  No means no, damn it!

E let me walk out alone in a dark parking lot because he couldn’t wait for Google to explain the Five Foot Rule.  He stopped by the front desk to ask an employee what it meant.

I didn’t relax until I was safely strapped into the truck with my seat belt.  I allowed E to get into the driver’s seat only after I carefully checked the perimeter and unlocked the door.  I asked him what the Five Foot Rule meant.  He initially refused to tell me and instructed me to ask Google, since I didn’t care enough to stick around inside for an answer.

He eventually caved to my whining womanly wiles and told me what the Five Foot Rule meant:

Every gym employee must speak to you if they are within 5 feet of you.

Mother fucker.