We’re all a little mad here

Basic reaction to a whole bunch of people I don't know reading about my feelings.

Basic reaction to a whole bunch of people I don’t know reading about my feelings.

So, in a completely unexpected twist, the CEO of the gym I joined last week shared a link to my blog and my readership blew up. The first thing I thought, after “holy crap why are so many people looking at my blog today?” was, “Oh SHIT, I was totally talking about my feelings, oh god oh god oh god oh god.” But, then I remembered that I’m human and most of us have feelings, so I stopped hyperventilating. Anyway, so grateful for the sharing of my blog AND for the program itself – four classes this week and all of them were amazing! I’m finally a little less acutely sore, soaking in Epsom salts and eating protein can help with that (in my humble opinion), but sore enough that I know I was working past my comfort zone. Have you ever done push up/sit up pyramids? You do ten push ups, ten sit ups, nine push ups, nine sit ups, etc until you get down to one of each. We did that between circuits including donkey kicks (aka I’m learning how to twerk somehow) and jump lunges. As per usual, absolutely soaked in sweat. As per usual, went out in public afterward and didn’t give a single shit. I’m pretty sure I jokingly told my friend verbatim, “Oh, I’m sweaty and you don’t like that I’m not all cute right now? OH DAMN, I DIDN’T REALIZE I WAS LIVING FOR YOUR APPROVAL.” Not that she gave a flying crap, we’re both pretty low maintenance people.

That’s actually what I had originally wanted to write about. I don’t know how to function around men that I find attractive anymore (nor have I ever really been able to, to be honest). I really am, in the least cutesy way possible, that idiot that runs into a pole, or end table, or wall because I’m physically incapable of thinking of something clever and also being a human at the same time. Which it proving very difficult because my life is decidedly far more filled with attractive people. I also, incorrectly, assume that men I’m attracted to would be more attracted to me if I…oh, wore makeup or did something other than let my hair do whatever the hell it wants. And wear something other than spandex pants. Well, maybe not that last one. Like I said, I’m a low maintenance person. Every once in a while I’ll whip out the curling iron and get really crazy, but for the most part, if you don’t like it, don’t look at it. Did that keep the 60-year-old thing that came directly from a swamp from catcalling out the window of his car “COME HERE AND GIMME A KISS, COMERE GIMMEA KISS” while we were both going 70mph on the highway? Of course not. Some people are just really hoping to be involved in vehicular manslaughter.

Oh, most people shower before going in public after a workout?

Oh, most people shower before going in public after a workout?

But anyway, something I’ve started to learn, at almost a quarter century old, is that I shouldn’t want to be surrounded in any capacity by people who wouldn’t appreciate me just the way I am. I wear jeans like five times minimum before I wash them, have no problem jumping into basically any body of water at any temperature, listen to every single genre of music that exists (except polka because fuck that), I don’t give a flying shit sideways about sports unless I’m actively participating in them, and will happily pummel a burrito when the mood strikes me. If someone doesn’t appreciate that, then I shouldn’t want to associate with them. I spent a lot of time in middle and high school not really understanding that. That the happiest people are the ones who are completely themselves, for all of their quirks, regardless of what people think. I read an article about that the other day, how the “insert stereotypes here” from high school are miserable now because they tried to fit a mold that doesn’t really exist. I read it and afterwards just shrugged, because at this point it just seems like common sense. People who try to be someone they aren’t to be accepted by society in some way aren’t going to end up satisfied at the end of the day. If you want to change, it has to be for you and not anyone else. Maybe that’s years of working with people trying to make positive changes that taught me that, but regardless. I’m glad that I accepted by complete lack of an ability to be a ‘normal’ human being years ago. Guys, I’m weird as shit. And I’m totally okay with it. I will dance in public if I hear any song that could be considered in any capacity “bouncy”.

That’s about it for now; it’s been a really good week. Plus, Friday the 13th is usually a good day for me, but that may be because I set the really bar really low. Like, oh I didn’t get hit by a car today or sleep past my alarm? Other than those two situations being vastly different in gravity, clearly as long as I get to work on time and survive the day, I’m doing solidly. I decided that I wasn’t going to be the person that continues to wax poetic about a failed relationship, but instead celebrate what was and accept that I’m meant for something better. Note: something, not necessarily someone. Because, you guessed it, I don’t need a man to be happy. Though after a month and a half, man, some action would be lovely. Like, shit. Emotions notwithstanding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. Also, Shakira is on and I’m alone in the office and you better believe I’m dancing around.

– a.

Gotta get down to that Shakira, man.

Gotta get down to that Shakira, man.

Staying committed

Ha, those two words can hold a heavy burden on some people, depending greatly on the subject at hand. In this particular case, it’s staying committed to myself. The past almost two months now (since the turmoil of break up/back together/break up/why won’t you mail me my shit for the love of god) have been, to be completely cliche, a roller coaster. For a little while, I struggled to find any lasting satisfaction or contentment throughout my day. Certain things would make me feel better, but I didn’t really feel good. Thankfully, blessedly, my commitment to self-joy has brought me sufficiently out of the dark place all people go during a break up and my days are mostly joyful now, with moments of sadness. I read a fabulous quote last night from (you guessed it) Tumblr: ” Before I met him, I would dance in the shower. When he was in my life, I would think about showering with him. After he left, I would sit on the ground in the shower and cry. When I got over him, I showered so quickly there was no time for dancing, fantasies or tears. Someone can invade the smallest parts of your life, you won’t even realize it until you dance in the shower again and wonder why you ever stopped.”

Sorry man whose name completely eludes me, I still struggle with the word "no" sometimes.

Sorry man whose name completely eludes me, I still struggle with the word “no” sometimes.

What a perfect way to describe a break up. And desperately true. I’m still in the part where there isn’t time for dancing in the shower – but at least I’ve stopped thinking of him washing the conditioner out of my hair for me. And other inevitable things that happen when showering with your significant other. Speaking of said other things, I have to say that I’ve noticed a stark increase in exboyfriends/lovers/casual sex partners/people I’ve literally never looked at that way/asshole misogynistic strangers reaching out to me. Now, while I am fully aware that rebounding is something that happens and inevitably there will be someone “after”, I have never been a big rebounder. Honestly. After a break up, especially one that wasn’t mutual, the last thing I want is someone else shoving his tongue in or around my mouth (in some cases, mostly around – ew). Don’t get me wrong, attention when I’m feeling down is fabulous. Yes, tell me I’m pretty. All day. Go ahead I encourage the fuck out of that. But, telling me that you messed up with me and/or wish you had done things differently? Drop it, man (x10). I don’t know if I’m alone in this, but when I move on from someone, I fully move on. When I make the decision to walk away, fully drop the rope, I am gone and I don’t look back. Not emotionally, anyway. And, on a mildly related note, I really need to apologize to the guy who I convinced to wait for me upstairs when I didn’t know how to say, “JK no, you’re really good looking and clearly intelligent but I’m an emotional mess,” and then ran out of the house. But I knew that trying to use sex or anything like it to try to make myself feel better wouldn’t fix anything and it certainly wouldn’t make me feel any more chipper.

Peeta is just as confused as me.

Peeta is just as confused as me.

It feels good though. To feel good again, I mean. To have days where I don’t run across something that reminds me of all the good in the relationship – because I don’t need reminded of that right now at all. Just like I don’t need to know how he’s doing, or if he’s happy, or any of the above. After bothering him for three, count it, three weeks for the rest of my things (trying all different tactics, mind you), I finally just told him to keep it last weekend. Said it was the last text I was sending. I’m appalled by the childish behavior, that he’s so scared to even see me when I offered to just pick them up because it’s like $20 to ship anything anymore. Mind you, of course he responded to that text (but not to the cut and dry “please mail me my things, let me know if you need my address” one, idontevenknowyouguys) and gave some excuse and then asked for my address but still the whole process? Ugh. And her mother trolling my Facebook page to “see if I said anything mean about her?” For Pete’s sake. I was willing to put up with the sitting outside and watching the house to see if I was over, mildly suicidal ideations, drunkenly showing up at his house, social media stalking, etc (btw, all of these are classic signs of an actual stalker, FYI) while I was in the relationship, now I’m not and I would very much like left alone. Was it actually her mother? I have no foggy notion; she used to use her mother’s Facebook to stalk us beforehand. Do I want to continue to think about it? No. Truly, I want left alone. I need to recommit to myself and myself alone. I don’t want any more relationship garbage, or long lost loves flying back into my life, or any of it. If this was a book, I’m finished reading it. I’d like to put it down now and not have it be like that book about creatures from Harry Potter.

So, all of that fun nonsense aside, I’m really pushing myself to be even better than I was before November. I signed up for a 5K, have been trying to help and reach out to as many friends as possible (this is symbiotic – I also don’t love being alone), have been really trying to keep improving at work, and joined a gym. And I’m really excited about this gym. Like, typing about it keeps making my eyebrows do this jumpy “are you excited cause I am” thing that kind of freaks me out because I can’t help it. Anyway, it’s called Soldierfit and it’s abso-fucking-lutely bloody-fucking-tastically amazeballs. I can’t believe I just wrote those last three words. It’s a program that’s based around military boot camp drills – but they offer so much more. MMA classes, yoga, kids classes, a regular gym, etc. My friend got into it a few months back and is already working there as a trainer because she’s a. awesome, b. a beast, and c. toootally gets the whole “reinvesting in yourself after a breakup” thing. So I left my old gym and joined Soldierfit and already love it. It’s not just a gym, it’s a family. Everyone is so nice, there’s so much camaraderie, and you can bet your ass that all of the trainers are good looking. Like, do another box jump for me unnng, good looking. That’s some serious motivation right there.

After the break up, I stopped eating and lost almost 15 pounds. I was happy to lose it but not in the way that I did. Once I started eating, I gained about five back. That’s about normal and didn’t really bother me, but I really miss how I felt when I was actually in shape. And I’ve been waxing on about that for years now, which is, at this point, stupid. I know what I have to do to get actual abs back. I know what I have to do to run an 8 minute mile (I’m clearly not a sprinter or anything along those lines, definitely a plodder). This was my very enthusiastic way of finally doing it. And oh dear god, everything is sore. My life is sore. I am so sore. Soreness 4 lyfe. It’ll improve and I’ll get stronger, and for now this pain is a good reminder of why I shouldn’t quit. And man, these functional fitness workouts are awesome. Slamming a mallet into a tire, heaving sandbags (really heavy ones), whipping a 10 pound ball at the wall like a shot put – I love it. I love all of it. Indian runs will likely be the death of me, but I love it. I’m so exhausted afterward, and nauseous, but it feels so good to know that I did it. I’m doing something. And it makes me feel good. Good for me, not good for anyone else. If I look great in a bikini and can be eye candy for others, that’s fine too, but I want to be able to climb ropes and army crawl through mud, flip tires, and do back flips. God, it really feels good to be active again. It feels really really good to start feeling like me again. I’m just starting, but it feels so good.

It’s funny, last year around this time, I’d written a post wherein I’d used a .gif to describe my love life. It was, still apt and perfectly chosen from Bridesmaids, when she raises her champagne glass, looking begrudging. I feel a little differently this time.

No really guys, I got this.

No really guys, I got this.

Fitness assessment tonight before class. I’ll try and post the results.

– a.