Those are the primary words of an anxious mind. When I was pregnant with my middle child my anxiety levels went through the roof. No. They went through the roof, circled the freaking sun and then came crashing back down on top of me.
Every minute of every single day.
I was the hottest of messes and really had no clue what in the hell I was dealing with. I had of course heard about postpartum issues, but nothing in pregnancy dammit. It wasn’t until one fateful lunch date with my father where I started putting the pieces of my mental health mess together. I disclosed to him some of the random and irrational fears I was constantly having. I didn’t tell him the really fucked up stuff out of fear that he would have me committed or something, but I told him enough. Enough that he immediately recognized these feelings and thoughts from his own experience with his own pregnant head case…
“Oh your mother! When she was pregnant with you I wanted to write a book called, ‘What If.’ She what-iffed everything. It was maddening.” Oh shit. This is a thing. A more than likely hereditary thing. Good news: I am not losing my marbles. Bad news: this was going no where good fast. I needed help…like yesterday.
Luckily for me I had a freaking amazing doctor, a supportive husband, and close friends and family who helped me through the darkest days. Six weeks of therapy and a few months on Zoloft had me feeling much like my old self. The anxiety was manageable, yet seven years later it’s still there. Sometimes it rears it’s ugly head out of nowhere; maybe a fleeting commercial or television program, something on Huffpost. Other times the irrational fears attempt to kidnap me and convince me that the sky is indeed falling. Because I can identify and understand what these feelings are, I am able to work through them. Hell yeah coping skills! Sometimes I can even laugh at the woes and worries that get penciled into my mental encyclopedia of “What If.” Recently I have conjured up all sorts of silly fears of things that might happen during my spin class.
Yes ya’ll. I am still spinning my tail off three mornings a week. Bright and early my girl Sara and I sweat, spin and try not to die at 5:15 a.m. While I should be trying to clear my mind during this intense time of exercise I can not help but chuckle at the “What Ifs” that seems to float in and out of my mind for the forty-five minute I spend pouring sweat and trying not to pass out.
Alas I bring you the What If Woes of Spin Class…
What if… I actually fall off of this bike one of these days? I could crash into the metal bike next to me or smash my skull on the concrete floor. I wonder if I should wear a helmet during spin class???
What if… I run out of water? That is a great fear half way through class. I actually start rationing my water like a crazy person that seems to forget that there is a faucet in the bathroom for thirst emergencies. Somehow this rational thought eludes me and I mine as well be biking through the Sahara.
What if… these cheap ass pants rip while I am trying to shave the flab off of my thighs? Where did I even get these pants? God, probably Walmart. They are definitely gonna burst at the seams one of these days. Then I will be mortified and I will have to quit, find a new studio further away and get up even earlier. If (when) my pants rip perhaps we should just move. I need new workout gear…made of steel.
What if…my ponytail holder snaps? Oh the mere thought of trying to do this shit with my matted, sweat-drenched hair makes my skin crawl. I think I would have to just stop and go home. I’m just not that hard core. Mental note: stock car, purse and Yoga Studio bathroom with ponytail holders. Consider buying a dorky fanny pack to hold rubber bands in while I spin.
What if… I slip out of the foot stirrups and break my vagina again. It happened a few weeks ago. I slipped out and fell vag down onto the seat corner. I swear to you I saw flashes of white as I experienced some of the worst pain in that region I have ever had to endure. Guys…that right there says a lot about how hard I hit that bike. Maybe I should consider wearing an adult diaper along with the helmet and dorky fanny pack.
So if you locals should happen to come to spin class at 5:30 a.m. and see me sitting atop my bike wearing a helmet, adult diaper, multiple water bottles strapped to my hip like I am McGuiver and a dorky fanny pack now you know…it’s just my spin anxiety at work.
Generate your button code