My Sweaty Secret

Can I tell you a secret, Internets? I really like working out. *waits for you to collect yourself after dropping that truth bomb*

Okay, so that’s not entirely true. The actual working out part I’m not so much a fan of. But the after? Oh y’all, the after is the best.

Two weeks ago I joined a gym. I haven’t worked out in a proper gym setting in half a decade. But I marched up the stairs at LA Fitness, determined to look like I knew what I was doing, and jumped on the first thing that looked like an elliptical. Y’all. Y’ALL.  It was not an elliptical. It was a Precor machine. The bottom part moves like an elliptical, but on an incline. Thirty seconds into I realized I’d made a terrible mistake, but at this point there’s no turning back. Part of the reason I need a gym membership and can’t just workout by myself at home is there is no one to shame me into continuing when I get tired. Sure, the stupidly attractive dude on the treadmill probably isn’t paying attention to me. And okay sure the tiny college co-ed with her tiny thighs that don’t touch probably isn’t going to judge me if I stop and find a proper elliptical machine, but you try telling that to my brain.

So, I kept going. Twenty minutes, I told myself. You can do twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is just fine.

A minute and a half into it: Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to work out for the first time in forever. Fifteen minutes. You probably won’t die. You can do fifteen minutes.

Five minutes in: Oh god, you are going to die. You are actually going to die at the gym. The tiny girl with her tiny thighs that don’t touch is so totally going to judge you. Do you think her thighs get lonely with all that space in between them? Oh god, you’re going to throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Oh jesus, he’s pretty. Why is everyone here so pretty?

Spoiler alert: I made it to 15 minutes without throwing up or dying. I also managed to make it down the stairs without my legs giving out. Whose bright idea was it to put the cardio equipment UP A FLIGHT OF STAIRS?

And then I sat in my car looking like this:

The most attractive photo of me ever: let’s put it on the internet!

and trying to get my heart to return to normal. Eventually I made it home during which time my body got real confused. What is this…happy feeling? Am I saying that right? Happy?

BEST. MOOD. EVER. And the only one around to appreciate it was the cat.

Is this how you people feel all the time? Like, you look at that pile of dirty clothes that’s three weeks old and starting to move on its own and it doesn’t make you want to jump out a window, you’re just all, “IT’S FINE.” You see all the dishes in the sink and the empty cat food cans and you’re all, “NO BIG DEAL. HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY.” Still broke, still single, still trying to piece my life together at 31, but IT’S FINE. I FEEL HAPPY.

It’s a new emotion for me, is what I’m saying.

In the meantime, I’ll be buying bulk of this magic tape that makes my knees feel like they’re 16 again and chasing down this happy feeling like a fat kid chases cake.

NaNo NoMo

November is usually the time that I commit to NaBloPoMo, commit to writing in this space every single day. And I thought about it, you guys. I really really did. But. *heavy sigh* I just couldn’t do it. I knew I would fail and right now one more failure would push me from emo to Eeyore and I don’t want to be Eeyore, y’all. I’m a sad about it, because it’s November and November is when you do NaBloPoMo and I am nothing if I’m not a creature of habit and resistant to change, but knowing your limits and all that.

BUT I am going to try something. I believe it’s called a compromise. I’m going to try & write here once a week. HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTS, Y’ALL. Cause, okay here’s the thing. I have things to say. And I’m happy when I’m writing. So. While I may not be able to commit to writing here every day once a week doesn’t seem so unreasonable, does it? I’m glad you agree.

Go team!


Today is one of those days where everything is sitting just under the surface. All my anxiety, depression, every fault and failure, they’ve all merged into this teeming, throbbing mass around my heart, just waiting to explode. It takes all of my effort on days like this to not let it detonate. To carry on like I’m not about to shatter into thousands of tiny pieces. I can feel it crawling just under my skin, humming with need and want and manic energy. Everything is urgent and panicked and even breathing comes harder. I feel radioactive.

I don’t have days like this very often, maybe twice a year. I can point to the trigger this time. Usually it’s something small. A million small somethings adding up to tip me over. This time it was like a land mine. Like tripping over a live wire, I know exactly what’s gotten me to this point. I could feel the force of the blast, blowing all of my hard work and the carefully constructed pieces of my sanity to hell. I know that two hours of sleep last night because I couldn’t shut my brain off, because I could feel everything converging and mingling and melding, are exacerbating everything.

But knowing why and how and even when doesn’t help. It doesn’t help when all of your emotions are sitting like exposed nerves waiting for the slightest of breezes to set them off.

I know that I just have to contain it for today. I just have to make it through the day and eventually all the anxiety and depression, all my missteps and faults will release each other. They’ll dissipate and go to their separate corners. I’ll be able to put the pieces of me back where they belong and shore them up so the next land mine does a little less damage.