Nearly fell on my ass. I hoped for ass, a graceful, poetic and movie-worthy drop. More likely the dive would have gone sideways, a loud clunk into the wall.
My fault entirely. Wednesday, after a long morning and afternoon feverishly catching up to the corporate clan, a large coffee and larger cookie the only fuel in 18 hours, I went to spinning class. My norm, something I do three times a week. But pushing a dry motor can crack the block.
Must have slept wrong the night before and awoke with a neck strain, the kind where turning left or right requires a full tilt of the upper body. Once I mounted the bike and began a quick warm up, the neck cramp suddenly shot into my left shoulder then down into my back. “Water,” I told myself. “You’re just cramping and need water.”
I’d taken a front row seat in class. Should I step off? "No,” I bullied, “Push through this, you’re not a pussy.” So I kept going, because I demanded it and because I was concerned I may not make a graceful exit through three rows of equipment and heavy breathing.
Oh, just wait. My actions get even dumber.
The cramp flowed into my side then side butt with each pedal stroke and push out of the saddle. All on the left side, it flowed into my toes by the mid-way point of the hour. Then the dizzy came. “Son of a bitch. Is this a stroke?” I wondered, “Or did I get bad walnut in my walnut-oatmeal-choco cookie?”
I adore my spinning instructor and her husband, separately and as a duo. Both drink-your-milk, midwest handsome, all they need is the chocolate lab to make the picture rosy-cheeked perfect. She teaches class up front, he takes class, that day on the bike directly behind mine. In my control freak glory, I chose to push through pain and the enveloping dizzy fog instead of allowing anyone to help, even them. And they would have, those two. But all I could think was, don’t fall off the bike. Don't quit. Handle this yourself.
I made it through the hour and stumbled through a quick cool down, actually falling a bit off my hard shoes. Instead of staying in the gym, catching my breath or perhaps fetching more water, I beat a hasty retreat, got in my car and drove home.
I told you, classic stupid. There’s no better place to faint then in a room of firemen and muscle-bound trainers.
The lesson here is twofold. One, eat. Two, if I had fell ass over backwards, there was a real life person in front of me and one behind that would have picked me up. I didn’t have to pretend or push past or run away to hide a moment of weakness. That's In Real Life (IRL).
And speaking of real, a nice man went in search of a chocolate bunny, just for me, just because I said I wanted one. And my head is spinning.