Hell's Bells

It's been a long time little while since I bared my soul and shared my heartfelt sentiments whined about things of little importance, but you're in luck because today is the day. I was going to write about the importance of developing strong character in children, but that trivial stuff can wait. See today I went to the gym at 6 a.m. and I'm not at all happy about it. In fact, this early morning workout was the key ingredient in what I believe is a recipe for irritability, one that doesn't require even a pinch of PMS.


Yes. This is me.

It seemed innocent enough. On Sunday morning, over crumb cake from Carlos Bakery (The Cake Boss), I agreed on a whim to accompany my friend Lori to the gym at 6 a.m. Monday for my first ever kettlebell class. As the day progressed, I wondered what the hell I'd been thinking had moments of hesitation, primarily because I greatly enjoy sleeping; the later, the better. But I decided to be a good friend and stick to my commitment. When I tired out around 10 p.m. on Sunday night, I figured I was in good shape for a 5:30 a.m. wake up call. Of course, I hadn't taken into account the hour that it takes me to actually fall asleep or the time needed to move to the couch when Rob starts snoring. At one point during the night I could have sworn I heard the alarm go off, but when I checked the clock it was 2:00 a.m. Then the cat woke me up at 4:30 a.m. And Rob woke me up at 5:00 a.m. And my conscience woke me up at 5:30 a.m. And the terrifying sight in the mirror jump started my system at 5:40 a.m. I had barely enough time to cover the dark circles and shingle scars before jumping in the mom-mobile and racing to the Healthplex.

Enter Healthplex workout room, 5:55 a.m. All the freakin' reasonable weight kettlebells were already claimed. I was left with either the baby-bell or the too-damn-heavy-for-me-bell. And then the instructor was late. Seriously? I got out of bed and made it here on time and this guy's late? Strike one.

Then I noticed my exposed legs were in serious need of a shave. Strike two.

Then my arm-covering psoriasis began glowing bright red from the exertion. Ah, the heartbreak. Strike three.

Then I thought I was going to throw up so I ran to the bathroom. Strike four.

I was more than "out" at this point.

I returned to class just in time for it to end (impeccible timing) and was asked by friends whether I'd be back to tackle the bells in two days. I suggested they ask me tomorrow when I should have some sense for whether I will ever walk or lift my arms again. Then, I crawled my way to the shower.

I think it's a safe bet that I'm sleeping in on Wednesday.