So I have one pound to go before I am back to the weight I was when I originally got knocked up. I never thought I would see this day, but here it is, and that last goddamned pound is hanging on with white knuckles. I've been at this weight for three weeks and only been going down by point one or point two of a pound each week. What a load.
This week I decided to kick it up a notch and do some classes at my gym. I had never done classes before and so enlisted a friend of mine whose baby is one day younger than Avery. More importantly though, she is a Respiratory Therapist, which means she can intubate and bag me if needed when I hyperventilate myself into a small coma in the aerobics room.
The first class I decided upon was a bootcamp class last Saturday. "What a joke," I thought, "this will be an effing cake walk compared to what Tina the Gazelle put us through!"
I was right, it was only minor (no one does it like you, Tina!), but because I hadn't really done much in the past little while, it rendered me useless for a few days.
Next I decided to try Body Blast. This seemed like a good time. That's exactly what I needed, to be blasted in all areas of my body. Bring it.
I found this class significantly more difficult, but can't judge it fairly as it was interrupted by my child who had been hanging out in the daycare and decided to have a diaper blast. Conveniently, she did this on the one day that I did not bring her diaper bag to the gym, but that is another tale in itself.
After kicking ass and taking names at both of these classes, I decided I was a pro and therefore could absolutely conquer a more ridiculous class. I chose spin.
Jenn, the RT, was a given for the class. She told me that I might need to resuscitate her if she went, but I quickly reminded her that she was the one with the respiratory experience and she needed to get a grip and learn to intubate herself. Clearly I would be too busy burning calories and looking amazing. I also invited my friend Ashley who is just all out hilarious, but she declined immediately under the grounds that she "did not have the CV capacity". Ashley looks like Steph from the neck down only about a foot taller. She's one of those moms that I hate and want to physically assault, but she's really funny and our girls are in music together, and if I assaulted her badly, who would I roll my eyes at in music?
I got up this morning ready to Lance Armstrong the shit out of the stationary bike. I put on my mandatory five bras and shelf tank that cost me $75 at LuLu Lemon. The last thing I wanted as I was envisioning myself crossing the finish line of the Tour de France was one of my knockers escaping, flying around, and smacking me in the face and off my bike. I also threw on a thong, for good measure. You can't have a panty line in your LuLu crops when your ass is up in the air and aimed at the biker behind you. I like to keep everyone's best interests in mind.
I got to class and hopped on that sucker like I was a stationary bike goddess mounting her noble steed. I eyed my competitors and decided I looked like the most spry and limber one there, especially as most of the class goers at 9am on a Friday morning were retired. I had this in the bag. God help them if my bike was to for some reason touch the ground. They would obviously all be left in a cloud of smoke from the burning rubber.
I casually sipped my Gatorade as the 60lb instructor gave us the go ahead to start peddling. This class was going to be amazing.
Fast forward 50 minutes. I am sweating profusely and sobbing into my handlebars. My ass is killing me, I have no Gatorade left and even less dignity. The old people around me are sweating too, but looking relatively refreshed and are not nearly in the state I am in. Every few seconds I black out and constantly feel as though I'm going to fall off my bike. All that keeps going through my head is, "Thank God I don't smoke, thank God I wasn't shitfaced last night..."
I am frantically looking around the room for something I can stuff under my ass to give myself some relief from the intense pain that is caused by what feels like a ceramic bike seat. At that point I'm thinking that hot coals or even a handful of knives would do.
Thankfully, the last 10 minutes of class is a cool down and stretching. Although I couldn't feel my legs, I managed to finish the class and saunter out of the room as casually as one can with a stationary bike seat lodged in their rectum.
By the time I got home and got Avery to sleep, I was contemplating checking to see if I had an ugly purple bruise in the shape of a bike seat on my ass. Even vaginal childbirth didn't assault my perineum the way that effing bike did. I quickly informed Brad that he would not be coming near me in any sexual form until my wounds healed. I also wondered silently if Lance really did have testicular cancer or if his testicle was just looking for a way out. I'm pretty confident that after an hour on that torture device my vagina and I are not on speaking terms. I can only imagine how it would feel if I sat on that thing for a living.
Sadly, even after a hot bath I am not feeling any better. I can only imagine how hot I'm going to look tomorrow morning at Zumba with my new anal appendage. I hope I don't get funny looks. Also, a second lesson was learned this morning. Only the fullest of underwear is appropriate for bike riding. The stringy thong I chose has still not been located.