I throw the baby in the stroller and proceed to walk on one the angriest walks I’ve ever taken. I know that this is a new part of my life: walking everywhere. Hmm, where is my car? It decided not to start after being parked outside of daycare for a hasty afternoon pickup. My brother called and told me the news while I was coming home from work and I felt the heavy tension return home to my forehead. My first panicked thought was, “How the fuck am I supposed to get to the gym?” I can’t stop obsessing about this.
With the chaos of all that’s going on in my life, this is the least of my worries but I am fixated. Somehow my ability to get to and from the gym with ease equates to the final balance and happiness I feel I need in my life. Calm down guys, I know you’re poor and hurting and suffering loss— but the gym will make everything better! This “no excuses” bitch pictured above has got me believing that somehow this is the key. I suppose its not really her, its my reaction to her that’s messing me up. What’s my excuse? Bitch, I’m tired! This morning as I’m walking the baby to daycare in a stroller with a flat tire, we roll passed my busstop to see a bottle of hand lotion on the ground. I know instantly that its mine and it immediately sets fire to a stressor fuse in me that’s been burning for some time. Seriously, wtf am I doing in my life where I’m so poor and deranged that I actually contemplate dusting off my old hand lotion from the ground and putting it back in my purse? And how did I manage to drop it out of my purse without noticing? And why don’t I realize that I am not in a position to be throwing $1.50 down the drain like that? Let’s not even mention how my ashy hands will suffer! I need to get my life together– I need to go to the gym.
At the gym I can relieve some tension and even stop half lying to my co-worker about going. I suppose I’m not lying, per se, I do PLAN to go to the gym but my car, and fate, and the gods of hotness just have something else in the cards for me. I stood in the employee lounge listening to this little, beautifully shaped cock diesel goddess (she looks like the hot woman from 12 Years A Slave) complain about how she struggles with her body and I’m thinking “Wow, are we really having this conversation?” I try to listen to her with a sympathetic ear but my mind begins to wander to whether I should make the kid’s lunches tonight or just pass out when I go home, or if I should go on a liquid fast until my best friend comes to town then maybe I’ll have a flat stomach for when we go out drinking. I really shouldn’t be drinking, its fattening and too expensive. But, I digress.
My #lifeflow is like this blog post. It’s just a mindless stream of shit happening with no real flow or pattern and I can’t keep the reins on it. Furthermore, I don’t even know if I used the proper spelling of the word “reins”– and I really hate that I use words like “furthermore” and care about spelling! Anyway, I have no car, no money, no man, no common sense, no freedom, no life and all I need to fix it is the gym! The gym is home. I know my place there. I show up in my baggy t-shirt, dingy yoga pants and old running shoes and I know where I belong– in the back and far away from the mirrors and hot chicks taking #gymflow selfies. I belong on the treadmill panting it out, music blasting and tears flowing because I just need some sort of outlet to relieve the stress in in my life. Minor stress to some, but colossal stress to me. At the gym I don’t have to constantly fight the battle to be understood, accommodated, appreciated, loved, stress-free, worry-free, or problem-free. In the gym I ain’t shit and as I sweat it all out on that fucking elliptical I realize that here, I don’t have to be shit.