The other day I went to the gym and while I was there, working out, I had a very vivid three to five minute fantasy. If the MPAA were to rate my fantasy it would most likely get a PG-13 rating. And I know what you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter! I didn't have a smutty fantasy, oh no. My fantasy would receive its rating due to the violence level involved.
I was on the stair climber/elliptical hybrid machine that I love after working up a sweat in the weight room. I was listening to Pandora, climbing my stairs to nowhere, when I began to daydream. Usually my daydreams are about eight hours of uninterrupted sleep or hot cups of coffee enjoyed in silence, like most moms. However, on this day my daydream/fantasy was a little more macabre.
Here's how it went: I realized as I climbed my stairs to nowhere, that I didn't want to be on this machine anymore. All this climbing, and I never got anywhere! While I didn't hate the machine I was on (at least it didn't hurt my knees), my gaze was drawn to the tall stair climber. The one that has steps like an escalator and which I invariably almost fall off of every time I try to use it. Full of indignant fury at this...this...injury waiting to happen, I charged over to the machine. A mob of similarly minded women appeared behind me with torches and pitchforks. A bonfire was lit under the stair climber, and my sisters-in-arms and I danced wildly around its charred remains. One of my new comrades shouted "VIA LA REVOLUTION!!" and we charged through the gym righting wrongs. For example.....
"Hey! Sweaty guy who uses the machines and touches every surface and then leaves WITHOUT CLEANING THE MACHINE WITH A SANITIZING WIPE. The wipes are FREE and are placed throughout the gym. How hard is it to clean up after yourself?!? Do you think I want to do hamstring curls while laying in a pool of your sweat? NO! Your punishment is to clean every last piece of equipment in the gym. TWICE! So say we all!"
"You! Yeah you, Chatty Cathy sitting on my favorite ab machine talking on your phone! I will grab your phone and throw it in the stair climber bonfire if you don't MOOOOOVE!!" etc, etc.
This went on for a minute or two, allowing my subconscious to vent all the frustrations that my conscious mind is too polite and shy to voice. Around the time I got to fantasizing about photobombing every gym rat's selfie in the weight room mirror, I was wrenched back to reality by stumbling on my stairliptical (I use this machine every time I go to the gym and I still don't know what it's really called). There I was, still climbing my stairs to nowhere; no bonfire, no angry mob of sister comrades. I got off my machine, and wiped the handles down with a sanitizing wipe (because that's what polite people do) and headed out of the gym. I was kind of glad that it had all been a daydream because 1) I want to be allowed back into the gym, and 2) I'd hate to find a Youtube video of my exploits entitled "Security Forces Tackles Sweaty Mom Gone Crazy". However, I was glad that I had had the fantasy because it had provided a sense of comic relief for me at the gym. Sometimes, we Moms take "getting our body back" way too seriously. Trust me, ladies. It is NOT worth a life time ban and pepper spray in the face from some 20 year old kid in security forces who doesn't understand in the least what stretchmarks are, let alone sympathizes with your post-baby pooch. I needed to relax, and take a step back.
So I went home, took a shower, and ate a piece of rum cake. Why? Because eff that stair climber, that's why.