Rebuilding my Temple #4: The near-insurmountable challenge of overcoming the temptation to stay home and cry instead of going to the gym because I ran out of my Happy Pills and was having the WORST day ever for no explicable reason

Oh you grammar freaks, take a chill pill (HA, irony!) because I know that was a horrific example of a run-on sentence but today I don’t care.

Anyways- It’s nearing that time of the month (was that TMI? Oh well) and as some of you lady-readers can probably attest to, at least those of you who are unlucky enough to have raging PMS like me, there are some days where you feel particularly forlorn and inconsolable. Today was one of those days. And it was compounded by the fact that I ran out of the Z last week, and was too lazy to get to the pharmacy until this week, only to find out that I had waited too long, the Z went back on the shelf, and were irretrievable because the prescription expired. So I’m waiting for my Dr. to refill the prescription and it feels like it’s taking forever. I know it’s my own damn fault, and it was the worst timing ever to run out of meds. I submit to you, exhibit A:

Somewhere in the middle of the work-day, something went terribly awry. Even though it’s been a pretty slow week, the few tasks I had to do over the course of the day felt like way too much to handle. The simple requests people asked of me, which I’m usually happy to do, seemed like huge inconveniences. It was everything I could do to maintain the facade of a pleasant person. It irritated me when people smiled at me because that meant I had to smile back, and since I’m at the front desk that tends to happen a lot in a given day. What happened to cast me into this funk? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 

I had some relief because I had to leave early to go to a chiropractor appointment, so at 3:30 on the dot I slunk out of work and into the sunshine, which felt nice, but the reprieve was short lived because I promptly found myself stuck in the middle of the hell which is DFW traffic. Yes, everything is a huge cluster right now because the great state of Texas decided to put EVERY major highway under construction. Sons of B's.

Because I’m not familiar with the area I was going to, and all the signage is constantly changing, I found myself on the completely wrong highway in traffic going about 3 miles per hour. My appointment was starting and I had no clue where I was in proximity to where I needed to be. This is when the cry-headache started.
 

(Cry-Headache: noun: The burning pain in one’s temples that generally precedes the occurrence of uncontrollable sobbing.)

I did eventually get to the place, and they were able to “squeeze me in” and when I was finally introduced to my chiropractor, an attractive male specimen with a Southern drawl like Matthew Mcconaughey, I was on the brink of a mental breakdown. While the appointment was definitely informative, it wasn’t really in a good way, because chiropractors are a lot more thorough then you would expect, and I was mortified within 5 minutes of starting.

First of all, I had to be weighed, and since I’m trying to avoid scales at the moment, I considered this an unnecessary setback. Then I had to stand in front of a warped mirror (I swear it made me look wider) as he had me perform “range of motion” tests, bending and twisting into awkward positions, and the result is that I have crappy range of motion and weak gluts and a weak core, which was causing the other muscles to try and compensate by pulling my spine out of alignment…PEACHY.

While I was glad I was finally getting to the root of my back pain problem, the appointment called out exactly how out of shape I have become, and how it’s affecting my body. I flashed back to a Dr’s appointment past when the scale read “115” and the nurse exclaimed how “tiny” I was. By the time I was in the car on the way back home, I was in a formidable mood.

Blessedly, the traffic wasn’t terrible getting home. I moped into the apartment and immediately face-planted into our couch cushions, because it was the closest, softest surface for me to wallow. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to move.

 

LT. Hubs, who was also on the couch, paused his video game:

LT: “Hey Baby, how was your day?”                      

Me: “Mmph.”

LT: “It’s six o’clock. We need to leave to workout in 20 minutes. Go get changed.”

Me: “MMMMRMMMPHHHHH.”

LT:  “C’mon, let’s go. We didn’t go yesterday.”

Me: “FINE!”

Oh, how I made excuses. I didn’t have any clean workout clothes. I would go for 2 hours tomorrow. I was tired. I had a headache, but to no avail. In exactly 20 minutes we were in the car, and every time LT. Hubs opened his mouth I wanted to smack him. And I tried to explain that he just needed to stop talking because the cry-headache was getting really bad and he was pissing me off even more. But he just asked what a cry headache was and smiled lovingly at me like he smiles at Winnie the Pooch when she’s being annoying and adorable at the same time—which is usually.

 We got there and I trudged upstairs to the elliptical, and everywhere there were mirrors. And I looked the same in them as I did at the one in the chiropractor’s office. And it dawned on me that maybe I was just in denial, and maybe I DID look that way. So I put some really angry music on my iPod and went for a few miles, praying that endorphins would start to kick in. But 40 minutes later, even after watching an exceptionally humorous episode of the Big Bang Theory, I felt just as pissy as before.

In the car-ride home, I told LT. Hubs that I still felt awful, and I needed my medicine, and very nearly started crying for real. And that’s when he pulled out the big guns and asked if I wanted to do takeout for dinner.

We ended up at Fuzzy’s and I got a grilled shrimp burrito, cause that seemed sort of healthy, and went back home and we ate and watched TV. After relishing my burrito and not having to talk for a bit, my spirits had lifted considerably. I showered and got in bed (which is in my opinion, one of the top 3 best feelings in the world) and finally the day was over.

I wish I could tell you there was a moral to this story but there’s not really a good one, except for PMS is the worst and sometimes you just have really crappy days. And I know it’s kind of sad that a burrito was the one thing out of the day that made me happy. I guess in the end, I’m just really glad I have a husband that pushed me to do what I need to do, even if it’s not what I want to do. It really sucked at the time, but I know I’ll be better for it later.

I love you, LT. Hubs.

Much love to ya,