Thank You Mrs. Stanley

It has been a few days since I posted.  I have decided to go off the Zoloft and fight the anxiety with less caffeine and more intense exercise.  Cut to my husband taking me to something called Body Pump.   Body Pump  is code for a bunch of  60-year-old women (who are in way better shape than I will ever be) kicking my ass in a combined cardio/weight lifting class.

I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO SORE!

I literally have not been able to move since Thursday.  I was the youngest person in the class by a good twenty years and the only person who looked and sounded like a dolphin that had beached itself.  The entire class, all I did was moan in agony and thrash about.  The 60-year-old female instructor looked and moved like a dancer in her early 20’s.  I looked and moved like Flipper caught in the shallow end.

The class began at 9:30 a.m.

By 9:31 a.m I knew I was in trouble.  There was no way I could take twenty-nine more minutes of this.  My eyes feverishly searched for the clock.  How much longer did I have to endure cardio and weight lifting simultaneously?  The instructor was practically twirling her barbell like a baton while I was missing my bottle of Zoloft and reconsidering my decision as my thighs scorched like fire and I bellowed from the pain. 

Ah-ha!  Found it. There was the clock!  O.K. plain sight.  Twenty-nine more minutes.  All I could think was THANK YOU Mrs. Stanley, my kindergarten teacher, for teaching me how to tell time.  Thank you, because of you I know exactly how much longer this evil Body Pump will last.

Big hand on the nine, small hand nearing the ten. Thank you Mrs. Stanley 9:45 a.m., only fifteen more minutes to go till I am free.

Big hand on the twelve, small hand on the ten.  Thank you Mrs. Stanley it is 10:00 a.m.  I survived.  Praise Jesus, Mother Mary, Oprah, and Dr. Phil Dr. Oz.  I made it. 

With the exception of heavy breathing from lungs desperate for air, everyone had stopped moving.  I didn’t waste any time. I painfully picked up my weight bar, my hand weights, the cardio steps and was making a bee line to put all my stuff away and get the hell out of there when I realized I WAS THE ONLY ONE MOVING.

This was just a break…the class was not over!!!!! I had to go tIll the big hand was on the six and the little hand was on the ten???!!!  Damn you Mrs. Stanley.   The big hand looked like it had to travel a mile before a half an hour passed.

Empty of  Zoloft and filled with disbelief, rage, and pain I mouthed to my husband, “half and hour right?”

He mouthed back, “no one hour.”

I then mouthed off, “SON OF A BITCH!”

Which again reminded me of Mrs. Stanley and my one blemish on an otherwise stellar kindergarten career. Mrs. Stanley wrote on my report card…”Meggan sometimes uses inappropriate language.”

Well duh.  Inappropriate language seemed completely appropriate when you quit your anti-depressents, your husband takes you to a torture chamber thinly disguised as an exercise class run by senior citizens who could bench press a minivan, and you are the jerk that thought the class was only a half an hour.

Shucks didn’t seem like it was the word I was looking for.  I survived the class and four days later still cannot walk down a flight of stairs my legs are so sore and to sit on the toilet I have to leverage myself by holding on to the sink as I lower myself down.  I was proud of myself though for finishing and only complaining to myself and the voices in my head. 

Where is that bottle of Zoloft?

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