Heart-whacked

Today I got injured in my Pilates class, which is a thing that could only happen to me. It’s like suffering a croquet injury, or a bongo mishap. It’s just not easy to injure yourself in Pilates. It was a tower class, which means that you’re working on equipment that’s bolted to the wall, and there’s a piece of that equipment on springs that you push down with your hands—and what you’re not supposed to do is let it go so that the equipment flies up and whacks you in the chest so hard you can’t talk for a few seconds. 

You see that bar each lady is holding? Well, if you stand over it, push it down, and then let it go, it will rise up with surprising force and leave you bruised and mad at it. 

You see that bar each lady is holding? Well, if you stand over it, push it down, and then let it go, it will rise up with surprising force and leave you bruised and mad at it. 

It hurt. It really, really hurt. Like, really.

It’s only a small class, just me and another student and the instructor, so it’s not like the WHANG that reverberated through my chest went unnoticed. Once I was able to talk I claimed that I was fine, and after a few minutes of me enthusiastically lying (why? Why must we always pretend we're fine?), we kept going. 

And that’s when the tears started. You know when you feel them coming and it’s just not the right time, and you’re like, not now, tears, wait until I’m home, come on, we only have ten more minutes of class, RETREAT, RETREAT, you're fine, keep it together, and the tears are like "NO THANKS! WE CAN’T WAIT TO SPILL ALL OVER THIS YOGA MAT!"? 

So embarrassing. 

It hurt, yes, but I also think I needed to cry. I'm normally a crier (boy, am I) but I've been having a dry spell. And it’s been a rough few months. I’ve been worried and sad. My dad isn’t doing great. His health problems keep multiplying, and he’s having cognitive issues, and it feels like every week there’s more news, and it’s never good. I’ve been keeping it together, though. I mean, he’s 80. This is what happens. I’ve kept my focus on my mom, who has to deal with the brunt of it. But then I got whacked in the chest, and something else hit me: my dad’s going to die.  

Luckily, as I said, it was only the three of us, so the class turned into a stretching/therapy session, with me soaking my yoga mat as the other two recalled the times they had cried during Pilates. I kept trying to stop, but my chest kept hurting in these waves, and each wave would bring it on again. 

The thing is, I really don’t want my dad to die. Not surprising, I know. I don't want him to die, and also I hate this. All of it. I think this whole deal, this whole getting old and sick and unhappy business, is stupid and unfair. I wish to have some words with whoever came up with this plan.

In the meantime, I hurt myself and I hurt and I got home and thought I'd stop crying, but I continued on with great vigor, and then my son came home from school and was quite concerned, and he ordered me to bed, because he is goddamn adorable and sweet. So I’m just going to lie in bed for a while with a whole bunch of damp tissues and a mildly alarmed chihuahua. Right after I hit publish.