Let’s get this out of the way…

SORRY MOM AND DAD.

Right. So. About that.

A small aside before we start chatting about my ass soreness? I have trepidations about sharing this whole topic with the universe, i.e., the 7 people who read my blog, because it seems once I put something out into the ether, almost without fail, it fails. Or disappears. Or, spectacularly, goes sideways. Kind of like when I was dating back in 2015, and I’d inevitably begin sharing with my family details about “this GREAT GUY…”, when almost on fucking cue, the entire operation fell to pieces, and I’d have the breakup text just as I wrapped describing our 2nd date and how I couldn’t wait…*ding*…hang on…oh…*everything ok, Sher?*…oh, yeah…just…that story I just recounted?…DISREGARD.

Here’s to hoping my chapped ass doesn’t ghost on me.

With every fiber of my being, I want to weave this story about how I bought a Peloton without it dripping with privilege and that annoying Goop-like, white girl basic cult feel, but I don’t know if I can. So, bear with me.

I sucked it up and bought a Peloton last November.

OK I KNOW SO DID THE REST OF THE WORLD, SHERRY. YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL.

Yes, Karen…I get it. Ya done?

I’ll admit, I had super low expectations of myself, and in a part of my brain I don’t like to talk about, I resorted myself to the idea this was gonna be a fly by night thing, and like every other workout/exercise/gym/effort to better my health, my ADHD would kick in and I’d be on to the next thing and the Peloton would collect dust and be sold off at a deep discount, and I’d regret buying it, and spiral into some self-hate exercise about my impulsivity and how I’m a quitter, which then turns into the YOU SUCK song. Oh, have I never introduced you to the absolute car crash of a catastrophe that is my psyche? Welcome!

Much to my shock and awe, I’ve embraced this trend to such an extent that I LIKE IT. I keep doing it. I have this whole ritual where I pick out my padded bike pants (because, y’all, even though I have more than ample padding in the caboose, that seat is TINY and hurty and there is NO shame in my game of wearing pants with a giant maxi pad shaped cushion sewn into the crotch and backside to protect my nethers from all that time in the saddle) and matching sports bra, and I click into my cleats, clip into the pedals and ride. I was about to say, I ride like the wind, but let’s be real. I ride like a light breeze. Like a toddler blowing bubbles.

Then, there’s the sobbing.

Peloton instructors, I imagine, attend some sort of seminar to develop their therapy styles and integrate that with their rides and I AM HERE FOR IT. All of it. Whether I need someone to yell at me about how GOOD I LOOK, remind me to LOOK UP (which, how do they know I’m always looking down? It’s uncanny) and drop my shoulders, or whether I need my gay bestie to crank some Britney, bitch, and tell me how damn fine I am and that he’s going to FUCK UP my SHIT, or the Mom-like instructor who tells me to put away my metrics and numbers and ride, and think about the backpack full of all the stuff I didn’t ask for, and didn’t need, and to drop the backpack and listen to the music and just ride and oooooh, here come the tears. Have you ever been riding a weighted stationary bike at 15mph and just started SOBBING uncontrollably, in front of a screen which reflects your ugly crying face back atcha and thank goodness you have a towel to wipe the tears?

And, before you know it, it’s the end of the class, and I didn’t die, and we’ll meet back here tomorrow and do it again tomorrow? Cool.

Stay hydrated my friends.

Your shine.

The world stole your glimmer, snatched away like a faceless thief in broad daylight. That shimmer, accessible only by memory, exists in some parallel presence, in some previous iteration of you. The old you. The you before the universe prolapsed, hurdled to the ground, and dispersed into an infinite dust and light. Here you are, in the now, barely trudging through fog and rain and floods even under crystal clear blue skies.

The voices lie so well, weaving tales of a dullness lasting forever, deservedly tarnished, never again to catch the light that lit a path through the blackest abyss. Your reflection deceives, too, an image of ill-fitting puzzle pieces stitched together by a wounded mind.

I see you, hurting, dying slowly inside, dismantling a bit each day until, eventually, only the hollow shell remains.

Here. Take my hand. Come home.

Rest. Even if the darkness knocked you to your knees, shut your eyes, stay there for just a moment, and contemplate the vastness of your noble strength. Do you feel that? Sit. Be still. Listen with your soul. Did you feel the ground quake? Breathe in the peace that exudes from all around you, exhale the noxious notions plaguing your healing.

The journey back to the light starts inward, to you.

You. The center of universal love. I know, that sounds far fetched. Once you embrace the boundless possibilities, you’ll begin seeing everything through a new lens. One that hones in on the immeasurable love and light in all that surrounds you.

Here, the unloving heal and understand.

The unloved discover the ritual of loving themselves.

What a gift, to love, a sacrament never to be undone. And from love, comes infinite radiance.

Welcome home.