Sometimes it feels like I don't live for much.
What I mean by that is, if it doesn't involve a two- or four-year-old human that once emerged from my nether region, I am likely not a part of it. Sure, I'd love to have a hobby or be a movie enthusiast or go to every new nightclub's grand opening, but, you see, stay-at-home moms have a bit of baggage. Baggage that happens to need their noses and asses wiped at all hours of the day and night. Baggage that can't be brought to movies or bars or parties. That kind of baggage.
So, when I discovered that I could partake in something for myself that came stock with childcare, I was in. I could check in, drop my precious but whiney and ever-thirsty (only for chocolate milk, never for water) baggage at the door and do something for myself and ONLY myself.
As most of you already know, I love working out. Love it. Spin class, especially, because it makes me feel like I'm fulfilling my deepest need at this point of my life, which is to go through the motions of going somewhere really, really fast and far away while actually being completely stationary because, let's be honest, I don't actually have any real desire to go anywhere at all. I'm in the heartabouttoburstwithloveandgratitude/getmethehellllllouttahere phase of my life.
Anyway, I've become quite good at spinning throughout the last year. I was just telling my mom the other day that I was fairly confident I could crack a walnut with my quads, in fact. So, I had that down. And thanks to my fresh new Lulu gear (I can call it lulu now. We're friends.) I was feeling good today. Pastel and matchy-matchy and extra perky, I swing my leg over my bike, take a look at myself in the mirror, and amongst a sea of bikes, notice the reflection of a new spin class go-er in the dark room. She's right behind me. "This is my first class", she actually admits to the instructor. So, because I'm feeling extra cocky today, I decide, in that moment, I would completely show off. I look awesome, after all, I mean, my freaking headband matches my outfit. So do my socks. And fingernails. This is my moment to get someone to think I'm cool and great, and maybe, with some persistence, I'll even push her to feel a little bad about her inability to keep up. I realize the immense assholeness of this inner declaration while it's unravelling in my mind, but I go with it anyway. Because before I know it, I think, I will be home again and scrubbing my indigestion-prone dog's vomit off the couch for the fourth time this week. This is as close to feeling noticed as its gonna get. I feel like I deserve the boost.
Off we go. I'm spinning like a maniac. I can see my nutshell-destroying thighs tense and swell and shimmer with sweat as my legs fly. The newbie behind me is struggling, sitting down and taking her time, but not at all phased by my Hulk-smash strength. She's smiling, in fact, seeming grateful just to be a part of the class as I'm pulling every trick I've got to get some attention. But, as luck would have it, I'm being completely overlooked.
I'm kinda ticked and sweating profusely and my chest is heaving up and down. I'm killing myself for the hope of a desperate ego boost at someone else's expense. And that's when I notice it. I wipe my brow with a towel, glance at the mirror, and notice, in the reflection, the newbie's leg behind me is shimmering too. Good god, she has a freaking prosthetic leg. Holy fucking shit, I'm the biggest douche bag who has ever lived. I just spent twenty minutes insanely competing against a handicapped woman who surely could teach me a thing or two about self confidence. What a courageous lady.
It seems fitting that during the daily time that I deem my most selfishly deserved, is the exact hour I am taught a lesson that happens to really be the most important lesson I could teach my children. "You're not better than anyone, even while wearing Lululemon." Maybe a more important lesson for my daughter rather than my son, but now that I think of it, they do have a pretty impressive men's line...
Anyway, I'm pretty mad at myself. Needless to say, the next time I need walnuts I'm buying them already shelled. Because, god forbid, the nutcracker goes missing and my panties and bra happen to match.