Moving On

Last summer was a blur.
I was still reeling from finding out that my 11 year marriage was a complete sham and found myself asking daily: “Who am I?” And “Where in the fuck am I going?”
I was launched into the foreign world of being a single 30 year old with two children. The last time I “dated”, I was 17. Texting had just started being a “thing” and I was still living with my parents. So basically, I didn't know how to date at all, let alone by 2015 standards.
I was now downloading snapchat and googling how to use it. All I had going for me was a clean STD check and my sparkling personality.
I got a crash course on Brazilians and fuckboys, screen shots and underwear not made of cotton. I learned there were rules for how fast you could reply to messages and a cap on the number of snaps you could send to a guy in a day. (As not to look more desperate than a 30 year old Mom can inherently look).
I dove head first into finding myself and who and what I wanted to be.
I spent my weeks with the girls in our family home drinking up every moment I had previously taken for granted and during their time with their Dad, I drank in a more literal sense. I stayed in my childhood bedroom at my parents, I traveled, went to concerts, spent a night puking my guts out on a party bus, slept in spare bedrooms and secretly searched for a permanent place to go.
I did anything to avoid processing what was happening and to take my mind off self loathing and missing my kids.
I said yes to everything and lived spotaneously for the first time in my life.
When I was finally ready to commit, my parents paid for the deposit on my apartment and one summer morning, I woke up with my friends at Lake Rathbun, watched the sun rise and decided that that was the day. I showed up to “our” home with a trailer and a group of friends to grab what we could and make the break. It was scary, it was chaotic, it was ugly, but I was moved in less than 2 hours.
With the help of my parents and friends, I made the little apartment a home and decorated however the fuck I liked. I bought a little each month as I had extra money and collected furniture from my sister and buy, sell, trade pages.
I hosted cards against humanity parties, had friends over, the girls had sleepovers and I started to see what life could be. Not with him, not in the purgatory of the in between, but in MY home, in my way.
August was a hangover of sorts for my summer of change. Life was starting to seem real. I hadn't slept in 8 months from pure anxiety and some nights, even fear.  I was still being told that I was ruining our family and our children by deciding to leave. I was reminded daily that I was just like him because of my decisions over the last few months. I continually felt sick with guilt (was I a terrible person?) and fear (What is going to happen? Will I lose my kids? Will my kids forever think this was my fault?). What little sleep I did get was plagued by nightmares.
I was happy, but lost. I was free, but scared.
So, I wrote a blog.
I still sugar coated a lot of shit.
It was a cry for help.
And so many people heard it.
One guy in particular, sent a message that ended in “small town peeps have got to stick together”.
Followed by an “I'm sorry. Was that super awkward?” (You had me at awkward. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.)
It was the same guy, unbeknownst to him, I had called dibs on sitting next to Missy at the bingo stand at the fair a month earlier.
We talked for a week. He drove by and waved at me in my window and the smile on my face stayed plastered there for hours.
The night I finally had the balls to invite him over (with extreme coaching from Missy), I sent a message at 8:30 on a Monday night asking if it was too late to come to town. I told him I was watching Louie and he was welcome to come hang out. (Typing this makes me ask: was this a booty call? Do people even still say booty call?)
He replied quickly- not following the “rules” of replying and was at my door 30 minutes later. Those 30 minutes were the sweatiest, most nerve wracking minutes of my life.
The second he got there, all those nerves were gone.  There was something different about this guy- easy. I didn't feel weird about being in yoga pants, I didn't fret about my house not being immaculate, I didn't worry about anything.
Over the next few months, we hung out on my off weeks and he would sometimes come sit on my patio after the girls went to bed because I wouldn't let him in the house while they were there. We talked for hours about anything and everything. He never pushed my boundaries, even when I pushed his. I slept, hard, for the first time in years and on the nights when I couldn't, he answered my middle of the night calls of pressing nature:
Will it ever not be weird not talking to someone everyday who you were married to for years?
Do you think I'm pretty?
Am I crazy?
Do you believe in ghosts?
Things were easy and fun.  There weren't rules or judgements. I struggled with whether it was all too soon. I pushed him away. I tested his patience. He was always there. Not in an obtrusive way, but in a “I'll just be hanging out over here when you need me” steady kind of way.
I won't say he saved me (mainly because I read a lot of memes on Facebook that say only you can save yourself), but in the words of Kasey Musgraves, he put me back on the map.
I never wanted to be 30 and single. I spent 8 months cursing the heavens and wondering why life had happened the way it did.
But I see now that everything had to happen the way that it did for me to be this person I am now. I value things, time, people and experiences so much more than I did before. I'm a completely different person. It was definitely a process getting here.  Am I super proud of all my decisions? No. Have I made peace with them? Yes. It was part of the process.
Here is what I learned by doing everything wrong (which maybe was right?):
It's ok to feel sorry for yourself, it's ok to make really poor decisions, it's ok to be selfish. It's ok to not have a direction or a plan, It's ok to be angry and act out in some crazy ways. It's ok to grieve for the life you thought you had or a future that will never be.
But at the end of that, most importantly, it's ok to be happy.
You have permission to change and it's never too late to start over.
Everything isn't perfect, but an important shift in my thinking is, I don't expect it to be. Life is messy and sad and scary, but there are moments in there that are pure magic and if you take the time to see it, life is really fucking beautiful.
We've both been here before. We know what is ahead and how much is required of us. One of the things that makes us work is being open and having realistic expectations. All I know for certain is in this moment, I choose happiness. I choose to be at peace with the past and am trying to enjoy the process. I'm releasing all of the shame and guilt into the world so that it can no longer plague me or hold me down.
I'm free.

Going Through the Big D

My divorce may not look like a “typical” divorce, so I have created a handy guide to your questions about my divorce:

"Are they getting divorced?  I still see them together all the time."

We have been a family for 11 years.  That doesn’t magically disappear overnight.  Sometimes I don’t know what the right answer is. (OK, most of the time) 
Are we together because it is easier to do what we have always done?  Is it confusing for our kids for us all to be together after we have talked about divorce?  Maybe yes to both, but each person needs to figure out what works best for them and go with it.  I genuinely enjoyed being with my family and still do.  We have a lot of fun.  I am still trying to figure out how to reconcile that with no longer being married to their Dad.  I will keep you posted.

"But I don’t understand what happened?  Everything seemed fine."

That is the thing about other people’s lives: other than it being absolutely none of your business, you have no idea what is really going on in someone else’s relationship.  It is a very intimate thing- marriage.  There are so many different working parts and even the two parties involved don’t always know what is going on.  Two people who seem perfect may have serious issues and people that appear to hate each other might have a really healthy relationship.  Again, if it isn’t you living it, it isn’t your place to make assumptions.

"But I just asked her how he was doing and she didn't mention it. Are you sure?"

Do you know how awkward it is to answer a question about your husband with “Oh, we are getting a divorce.”?  So I just didn’t do it.  I didn’t want to make other people feel uncomfortable or feel like they needed to pitty me, so for the most part, I didn’t address it.  I plastered on the smile and pretended everything was OK.  I am socially awkward to begin with- throw a divorce in the mix and I just completely shut down.

"Those poor kids."

Yes, divorce sucks.  It really does. It is hard as an adult to hear your child say they would rather be with their Dad when you make them do their chores. That sting will not lessen with time. It is hard on everyone involved, but especially the kids who have no idea why their lives are being turned upside down overnight. 

In the court ordered class about how divorce affects your children, they pretty much dedicate 90% to educating you how much you have screwed your kids up by making this decision.  Did you know that they are now far more inclined to be divorced themselves?  Do you know there is a higher risk of them being involved in criminal activity or otherwise acting out? Do you know that this whole experience can literally just fuck them up?

They are going to be fine.  I know some kick ass adults that are from divorced families.  I know some pretty shitty adults who came from two parent homes.  It is a toss-up.  I will just keep loving them and pray for the best.

"I hear she drinks a lot and is getting around."

I am finally realizing how little of what I have heard about other people is actually true and I feel pretty shitty about believing them and spreading rumors myself… but honestly so what if I was?  I am a grown ass woman and what I do on my time is none of your business.  If it isn’t directly affecting you (which it is not) and it is not harming my children (which it is not), move along!

"Did you hear she took him for his 401K?"

Do you know that Iowa is a no fault state and divorce is 50/50?  I am sensitive to this one because I have made some pretty harsh judgments on people when I had no idea what was really going on.  There is no “lawyering up” when it comes to assets, there is no taking him for what he is worth or getting revenge through money.  It is equal.  Also, divorce is really expensive...so is re-buying every kitchen utensil.  So in summary: no new boobs for this old lady. 

"What was up with her facebook post?"

Dumb.  I hate when I am passive aggressive.  I really wish that I could just never act that way ever, but sometimes all the frustration, sadness and fear bubble to the surface and vauguebooking happens.  I am sorry for these posts.  I was really trying to keep it all in, but sometimes I failed.

Divorce is nasty.  It is hard emotionally, mentally and physically.  The parties are intentionally hurtful to each other pretty much all day every day. For 8 months, I haven’t been able to sleep, focus, or function normally.  The best way to describe it is being a zombie.  A really, really scared, sad zombie.

I have cried and yelled and doubted myself. I have gone through periods of coldness.  I have wanted to run away.

But I have also laughed. 

I found support in some of the most unlikely places. People I did not know well reached out to me, sent me encouraging messages or stopped to tell me they were thinking of me.  I grew closer to the friends that I needed to have. The real kind that love you at your ugliest and would literally do anything to protect you at your weakest.  The kind that aren’t afraid to tell you when you are making poor decisions or hurting yourself or your family.  Everyone needs tough love now and again. 
My family is amazingly supportive and my parents let me move in for periods of time and spent hours shampooing carpets and cleaning my new place.  My sister gave me furniture and all this has helped me feel at home in a new place.
I can’t thank these people enough. You have made life bearable and reminded me that I am still a Mom and a daughter and a sister and a friend and that is enough and worth getting out of bed in the mornings for.

I have also learned.  Divorce has taught me not to talk without knowledge.  It has taught me to be humble.  I judged so harshly.  I felt superior.  Then, the bottom fell out.  It has taught me to be kind.  You never know what battles someone is fighting or what burdens they are carrying.

One of the worst parts for me was keeping it a secret.  My wish is for no one to feel that way.  You don’t owe someone else the courtesy of anonymity.  I am not telling you to air your dirty laundry, but you also don’t need to suffer alone, shoving down emotions.  It is OK to talk about it. If you ever need someone, let me know.  I would be happy to give you terrible advice and help you make ill informed decisions.

http://youtu.be/tzB3JB-0zk4

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Saved

Pastor Tim asked a few months ago for all of us to think of a time when we had been saved. He said we all have one of those stories. The unexplainable push to do or not do something that may have just spared us. I have two very distinct times my life was saved. Once right before I had Blakelyn- 9 months pregnant, standing in a snowy ditch after my car slid off the road, and climbing that ditch with my ginormous, swollen, pregnant body when all I wanted to do was stand at the bottom and cry. I hadn’t really thought why I should climb out of the ditch, but moments later, a car, sliding in the exact same spot, crashed into mine and sent it directly into the path where I had been standing. The second was right after delivery when the bleeding wouldn’t stop and the doctor’s had run in, brought my family in and prepped the OR. Then as quickly as it had all started, it stopped.

The big question for me is why.

As I near my 30th birthday, it has given me an excuse to reflect on my life. I spent nearly all of my 20s trying to appear and act older than I was. I wanted no one to have to pause and do the mental math to figure out I had had a baby right out of high school. I was constantly overcompensating…a Napolean complex of sorts. Anytime anyone did guess my age, they always overshot by at least 5 years and I always took this as a compliment. I had achieved so much in my short life right? I had a good job, a college degree, a home, a child, a husband, a car, minimal debt. Isn’t that what life is about?

My main goal in my 20s, was to achieve success; to make the “Top 30 under 30” list in Grand Island. I worked long hours. I went to class at night to complete my degree. I volunteered for resume building organizations. All of my efforts were focused on building the appearance of success. I was focused on achievements to share with others at the bar when I came home over Thanksgiving break. During these years, I felt powerful. I felt like things were really happening for me and I was on the brink of real success. The thing I wasn’t (if I had stopped to notice), was happy.

We moved two more times and somewhere along the line, I got discouraged. I realized that no matter how many hours I worked or how many presentations I gave or recognition I received, I was empty. It made me realize that I wasn’t going to be fulfilled fulfilling someone else’s mold of success or through work alone. Three years ago, I did a lot of soul searching and re-evaluated the meaning of success. Success is different for everyone and I realized this for the first time. Mine was different too.

The past three years of my life have been as close to successful as possible. Happy. I let go of the past and mistakes I had made (even the really big ones). I forgave others. I moved back to my hometown and committed to living not for work and ego, but for my family and wonderful community. I was home in time for supper and homework. I spent weekends with my family. I volunteered for local organizations because of what they did for the community and others, not what they did for my resume. I started to fill my soul.

For those of you who don’t know, four months ago, I had another reset of sorts. Life as I knew it has changed and as I face my 30th birthday, I am again re-evaluating my life and preparing to start a new chapter. The future is as uncertain for me now as it was the day I moved back home from college, pregnant and ashamed of the future success I had “lost”. The difference this time is I have some wisdom under my belt. I will not fill my life with vacant attempts to appear OK. I will not wish myself older or waste years chasing approval from others.

I have also learned that people are infinitely resilient. Really, what other choice is there? I know that the heaviness of the present can only lead to greater things. It has so many other times in my life following tough times. I’m still working, but I know I am blessed.

I struggle with my faith, but God saved me. As I talk to Him and to my Grandma, I know that there is a reason. Maybe it is to speak what others keep inside, to combat the loneliness and isolation, maybe it is to volunteer where I can, or maybe it is to raise two future leaders in my talented daughters. Maybe it is something yet undiscovered and that I have been blessed with the time to find.

I hope you all have a story about when you were chosen to have more time. I hope you share it. Most importantly, I hope you know there is a reason you are here.

The Elf is Dead

The story of our elf on the shelf begins last year in Target,where I paved the road to failure from the very beginning. On the end cap is the official elf on the shelf with book set and instructions,a stuffed elf,elf accessories and a DVD featuring the elf. Due to a genetic trait that pushes me to get the best deal on anything,no matter what,I do the math in my head and find I can purchase the stuffed elf,a skirt and the DVD for less than the official looking elf with the boxset.

I didn’t really know anything about the elf. All I knew is that people were posting pictures of an elf doing crazy things on facebook and that was enough for me to be thrown on the mission of getting my kids an elf so they would not be deprived of an amazing childhood with spectacular memories of an elf who does magical shit and gets in all sorts of funny predicaments,but apparently not so much that it would propel me to research the elf or know anything about it.

So I take the elf home,take it out of the package and let the girls play with it. Because I am so cheap and didn’t purchase the book and am too lazy to even google the damn thing to know how it works,I tell the girls my own made up story about the elf and how she is watching everything they do and uses the phone to call Santa at night. They name her Winter and take turns sleeping with it.

A few days into this elf calling Santa on the phone charade,we finally get around to watching the DVD. Do you know what happens in the DVD? (and probably in the book if I had ever read it). The elf freaking dies because the kid touches him. Yes,so B is holding the elf while learning that touching it kills its soul.

There is panic.

I am immediately launched into an explanation of how their elf is special and must not be affected by human contact. I mean obviously that must be the case- the elf has been moving around at night…doing really lame stuff like sitting in different places throughout the house, but nonetheless,moving,so our elf must be cooler than other elves and she is indeed still alive.

Also- the revelation that our elf is supposedly flying to the North Pole each night? Really elf on the shelf creator? I feel like my phone call to Santa was a bit more believable,but OK,I guess we will go with your stupid idea since it is in the movie and everything. So,I also have to make up something to cover up this inconsistency in the story.

The rest of the Christmas season passes without much more trauma. Nolan starts putting some effort into the elf adventures and lifelong memories were made by all. (insert giant eye roll)

Side bar: Is it disturbing to anyone else the amount of lies we tell our kids and it is not only acceptable but expected? And how gullible are the children we are taking advantage of that they just take all this in as fact?

So fast forward to this year- and apparently now our elf cannot be touched or she will lose her magic. This adds another level of complexity. What if your kids touch it without you looking just to test if you are full of shit with this whole elf business and the elf keeps moving? It is too much pressure. I seriously need to do a more thorough job of investigating this fad shit before jumping on the bandwagon.

The days of waking up sitting straight up with panic over what you did the night before are replaced with the panic of your kids waking you up with “Mom- Winter didn’t move last night. Is she dead?” She spent two nights in the freezer because we forgot to move her. My groggy response was “Maybe she just got stuck in the freezer.” I could immediately tell this is not the correct response by the look of complete terror on their faces. I replace it with a “OR maybe she just really likes the ice cream in there!” This is followed by speculation from them that I probably accidentally touched her when I was helping myself to the ice cream and killed her. I refrain from calling out the blatant lapse in their memories that they used to sleep with the elf and never killed her. Again,I remind myself that I brought this elf home and got myself into this never-ending nightmare.

So as we near the end of this Christmas season and Winter’s soul makes its trek back to the North Pole while her limp plush body sits in a bubble bath made of marshmallows,I believe I could use a bubble bath of marshmallows myself.

Congratulations to all of the parents who have made it through another year keeping the Christmas spirit alive because not ruining this for our kids gets harder every year for me. I say stupid shit constantly and then try to cover it up,hoping that even if my kids know that this is all a huge lie,that they will pretend that they don’t because I am not ready for them to not believe,I am not ready for them to grow up. So if that means doing dumbass shit with a stuffed elf and bold face lying to them,then god damnit,that is what I am going to do. So Merry Christmas my fellow bullshitters! We have survived another year of amazing memories for our children!

Unwanted Advice

So I recently hit the lowest of lows and turned to a parent’s forum to ask a question about my 5 year olds’ ridiculous behavior issues. It is bad. She is a bear and everyone in my house now walks on egg shells around her to avoid conflict. We have learned this dance over the last 5 years and I don’t know exactly when I turned into a giant pushover capable of being run by a tyrant in the form of a tiny, petite 5 year old “princess”, but it happened at some point and now I build every day and every action around her mood.

Before I knew it, the thread was flooded with advice. A lot of good natured Moms trying to help, lending their advice to a fellow Mom in distress. The overwhelming consensus?: I need to take her to a psychologist and our whole family most likely needs intensive counseling… Wait, what? Seriously? I have no idea what type of advice I was expecting to get when I typed up my long explanation of her behavior since birth and what we had done to try to change it, but I guess I didn’t see that coming. My first reaction was: “Fuck, that sounds like A LOT of work.” I mean I have to find someone, make the call, make an appointment, get everyone rounded up and go talk to someone. And my second thought was “Fuck, the counselor is going to say it is my fault.” Which is really what, deep down, I have known all along.

I know you aren’t supposed to compare your children. But let’s be honest, it happens. Blakelyn, despite my immaturity and total lack of skill in parenting, is the most caring, responsible child I have ever seen. If you ask her to do something, she just does it. It is so weird. This, unfortunately, ill prepared me for my Parker. Who is also incredibly sweet once you get past the hard, sour, chalky outer exterior of her unreasonable outbursts and “you can’t make me do anything no matter what” attitude. I don’t feel like I parented them all that differently. If anything I should have been a better parent the second time around, right? All that knowledge you gain, all those Mom badges you earn, but apparently not. Apparently something went very awry.

So, at the end of the day, do I take their advice or do I look into my heart, knowing the entire situation, knowing all of the mistakes I have made and knowing my 5 year old to her very soft, lovable core? My advice to myself “Chill the fuck out.” I know exactly what I am doing wrong. I know what I need to change, but instead of actually doing that, I turn to complete strangers in hopes that they would know of some new, groundbreaking treatment for monster behavior that would require little to no effort and preferably could be done in front of the TV. Let me save the counselor bill- I need to discipline and reward consistently, yell less, listen more, remember that hugs can fix most problems, stay calm and chill the fuck out… and most importantly be honest with myself about my own ridiculousness. It sounds so simple right? If only I could remember this in the heat of the moment when I am getting a hippo stocking hat flung at my face because the princess doesn’t want to wear that today! And if you agree that I should see a counselor, you are probably right.

Emotional Overshare

I suck at the big things in life.  I never know what to say or do or how to act.  As easy as it is for me to laugh about the humor I see in life, is as hard as it is for me to express the serious.  So with my Grandma’s passing, I had no idea how to deal with what I was feeling.  I started by being a total bitch to those closest to me, then I moved on to my standard coping of eating my emotions, but when I realized that wasn’t the best way to cope (and that my pants were no longer zipping), I started writing- which seems to work for me as a way to make sense of what the scrambled mess that is my brain creates.  Disclaimer- what follows is a break from the ordinary for me.

When I wrote, what came out was a list of all of the things I attribute to my Grandma:

Peanut butter and butter crackers with holes in the saltines

Her brushing my hair (or picking out my perm depending on the year) while staying up late to watch Johnny Carson and drink our tea

The clink of her rings on her white tea cup

Sleeping in her big bed and having to put a pillow between my knees to sleep just like her

The glass jug of water in the fridge and how that water tasted better than any water anywhere, hands down

Home perms sitting in her brown leather dining chairs

Almond bark covered everything at Christmas time

Taking me to the pool and watching everything I did from the side with a huge smile on her face

Taking me to church and being so proud to show me off to all of her friends.

Snapping beans from her garden that she worked so tirelessly in

Hard boiled eggs with money amounts written on them for Easter

Shopping at the grocery store to stock up for our week together in the summer and her buying all the things my Mom always said “No” to, including that “colored sugar water” that came in the little plastic barrels with the tin seal.

Her entire house being ours for the taking.  We went through closets, bathroom cabinets, dressers- there was nothing off limits.

When I list these out, I smile because I know that my girls are making these same memories with their grandparents and I cry because it took her getting sick for me to realize how important these were to me.

My parents took Blakelyn down to visit my Grandma a few weekends ago and they all helped plant her garden and spent the day with her.  My Dad shared that when Blakelyn hugged her before they left, my Grandma said “That right there is worth a million dollars” and it was.  She is the type of person that would take a hug over money any day.  I wish I could be more like that.  Deep down, maybe there is a part of me that is because when I look at this list, I realize that the things that were most important to me aren’t things at all.  They are smells and feelings and experiences.  Of the hundreds of presents she bought for me over the years, I can’t remember any of them right now, but I remember her and her wonderful laugh and the specialness of having a Grandma who made each grandkid feel like her favorite.

Above all, I remember the way she made me feel.  I was special, I was important and I was loved.

When Nolan and I first got together, he thought it was so bizarre that my family was telling each other they loved each other constantly.  I would call my Mom to ask how to get a poop stain out of a baby sleeper or what time we were going to meet for a walk and then end the call by saying “I love you”. 

Somewhere along the way, I allowed my heart to harden and I built a wall.  I went years without feeling loved and I was isolated enough from my family that no one expressed love to me.  The girl who once gave out "free hug" coupons for Christmas was now a bitter, prickly adult.  So even though I was still saying “I love you” at the end of phone calls, it wasn’t actually registering what that meant.  It was just something you say to close a conversation.  I wasn’t living it, I wasn’t feeling it. 

Something like this happening tends to change the way you look at things, so when my Mom held the phone up to my Grandma’s ear in the hospital, I said something that I had probably gotten too cool to say somewhere in my teenage years: “I love you a bushel and a peck Grandma” and she responded: “I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck” just as if we had never stopped saying it.  I meant it more than I had meant anything in my life. I knew she knew how much I loved her and I felt her love in those simple words.

I have done a lot of reflecting on how I have lived the last 10 years of my life.  I have wasted so much time being angry, resentful and sad.  I am ready to put that behind me and try harder to see the good things in life and finally be content.  All I can hope is that I can live a life where hugs are worth more than things and my words and actions can change someone’s life for the better.  Maybe, just maybe, I can soften up enough to show others the same type of love that my Grandma showed me.

I Work Out

I hate exercise.  I do it mainly so I can tell people about it.  Of course it would be nice to lose a few pounds, but it seems like people are more accepting if I tell them I have been working it out.  I, of course, have to join a class because working out on my own is completely pointless.  It usually ends with me eating something while lying on the living room floor lifting my legs. Here is an summary of my experience in class:

So I show up a minute before class starts because I waited until the last moment convincing myself that I couldn’t go because I had a headache, was tired and my daughter wasn’t yet bathed.  As the class starts, I discover I left my water in the car and have to run to get it…and by run, I mean walk as slow as possible to the car and then once I hit the door to the class act as if I have been hurrying.

All the spots in the back are taken, so I am forced to take the front and center spot.  I join in to where the others have started and instantly break a sweat. I was already winded from the 20 feet I pretended to hurry.  After several moves, I am sure that we are about half way through the hour and I glance at the clock.  5 minutes have passed.

20 minutes in- I notice there is a pretty good sized dark spot on the floor.

25 minutes in- It looks like maybe there is a leak.  I inspect the ceiling while doing some sort of traveling with my feet.  There doesn’t appear to be any sign of a leak.

30 minutes in- Butt kicks...ya right.  If my shoe makes it all the way off the ground, I deem it a success.
The spot is growing.  That is so weird, I look to the ceiling again and then consider the possibility of some sort of liquid rising up from the floor, but we are on the second floor and I rule that out.  Oh shit…the realization takes hold that the spot is from me.

31 minutes in- It occurs to me that the spot is in the exact same shape as a fetus-umbilical cord and all.  Shit- I have either sweat or peed out a baby.  The same carpet I danced on at my high school prom now bears a sweat baby.  I start laughing to myself at this thought and then make awkward eye contact with the instructor.  I want to holler out “Oh no- not laughing at you”, but I am not sure how to explain the randomness of the thoughts that just went through my mind, so I just keep locked on and continue to laugh.

35 minutes in- jumping jacks…Are you fucking kidding me?  I briefly consider doing them.  I assess my situation.  I do have black pants on, so if I did piss myself, no one would notice.  I decide not to risk it and do a modified version. I am the youngest person in the room and the only one not doing full-fledged jumping jacks. How do these ladies do it?! I make a mental note to start regular kegel exercises.

37 minutes in- I look like a participant in a wet t-shit contest, but I am losing…oh yes, am I losing.  I would have been pushed off the stage. 

40 minutes in- She is so energetic.  I love her energy and hate it at the same time.  I want to find something wrong with her…nope, there isn’t a damn thing.  I guess I will appreciate her attempt to motivate my sweaty ass into pushing it a little more.

45 minutes in- I am having an out of body experience.  I think I may have blacked out.  I am fairly certain fat from my ass just touched the back of my head while trying to do “fast feet” Flashdance style.

45 1/2 minutes in- Every expletive ever uttered just ran through my head.  Just keep pushing it down.  Oh my God, I am choking on the words. I am going to barf, going to barf.  Acid is rising in my throat.

47 minutes in- We lie on the mat.  I had no idea these things held so much heat.  It feels like my back is on fire, but I know this is impossible because it is not dry enough to hold a flame. 

48 minutes in- We roll to our hands and knees.  My body has left a perfect sweat impression on the mat and I am trying to use my body as a shield so no one else can see it.  Is my ass really that big?  I try to fan the impression away. 

50 minutes in- We are lying on the mat…or at least I am.  We are supposed to be holding our lower body up while kicking our legs.  At this point, I am not even pretending to do the moves. I am just lying there trying to come to.  And 1,2 and 3.  I swore I was lifting my leg, but nothing happened.  I have lost all motor control.  I may be paralyzed.

55 minutes in- Cool down- It is about freaking time.  Even though I have already been cooling down for 5 minutes, I am going to need about 50 more and a high pressure hose.

Work Out end-  I try to straight leg it down the stairs.  I look like a sweaty, red faced mummy. Hey young ripped boy judging me on your little machine down there- just you wait.  You will marry someone who will be just like me someday or you will be fat… maybe even both.  Please avert your eyes from this hot mess making it down the stairs.

After work out- I do what any great athlete does at after a successful workout.  I drive my car to Casey’s, take part in the buy 2 slices of pizza and get a free fountain pop deal and then eat a large chunk of frozen chocolate Easter bunny after returning home.  I earned it damnit.