I was having a horrible day Tuesday. I barely slept the night before, I got into a fight with my husband over lunch, and it was around three hundred degrees at my job. My body was rebelling against me and my brain was in a constant scowl. I needed a night off.
Tuesday is my trapeze class though. I wanted to go. Actually, that’s a lie. I felt terrible and did not want to go. But I felt like my not going meant I was lazy and a complainer and a major lame-o. And I recognized that going would actually be a great risk.
The truth I came around to was that my IBS kicking my stomach’s ass, combined with my negative mind state, equaled a potentially dangerous situation when you add a trapeze that’s eight feet in the air. I figured my teacher would rather I stay home than have to console a crying, cramped up, overly tired student who would eventually resort to rocking in the corner in the fetal position.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t end up being that bad. But you get my point.
So I went home, talked things through with my husband since he deserves at least that much, and then went to bed. I woke up feeling like a new person on Wednesday. It amazes me what a bad nights sleep does to me now that I’m creeping slowly toward thirty.
I ain’t a spring chicken anymore.