I Cried on My Peloton
I crashed into a brick wall and kept on walking. There’s a haze hanging in front of my face and I feel lethargic and robotic. Moving through my day as usual. Yet, every movement seems slowed and elongated. Like I took some janky edibles. But without the good feeling of the THC.
I stare at my inbox. I sit at the coffee shop. I stare at a white empty document. I stare out the window. I wonder what I should be doing. I could write. What would I even write though? A hilarious piece about the day after a personal catastrophe?
The truth is, nothing. I have nothing to do anymore. And time goes on. So does life. But I feel frozen and aimless. Like the grapes I put in the freezer every day and then pretend are a delectable dessert. Today might require refined sugar. And dark chocolate.
How long do you need after an election loss for the slow motion to speed back up? Asking for me. Not for a friend. Maybe a friend too, I have some of those that are heartbroken today. I’m going on under twenty-four hours, but I feel like the goo surrounding me is getting thicker. I wasn’t the candidate but I was on the team, there since nearly the beginning. I spent months working and fighting because I believed in the candidate I worked for.
I cried in the back of a Lyft at ten p.m. last night. Sniffling as silently as I could muster. Hoping the low music detracted from my snot-nosed sobs. It probably didn’t. I tipped him well. I think, I was a little distracted on my walk into my building. I know I tipped him something.
I cried on my Peloton this morning. Is that normal? I doubt it. I haven’t see a challenge revolving around that yet. Hey, Peloton, maybe you should add that as a monthly challenge. Five good cries on your bike earns you a bronze medal. I’m one-fifth of the way there.! Look at me, thinking positively!
I cried after getting out of the shower this morning. As I looked in the mirror at my dehydrated skin and the big blue circles under my red bloodshot eyes. I applied some makeup and looked again. I looked worse. Shrugged at how that is possible and left my house. C’est La Vie, that’s the key right?
Hey! I left my house! I did it. I didn’t crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head. Small victories.
Victory. Oh no, here come the tears again. I wanted a big victory. Fuck small victories. Small victories suck and can go shit themselves. Okay, it looks like I’ve reached the anger stage of this process.
What are the stages of grief, in order? I have no idea. I hope I cycle through them quickly. Is dry humor one of those stages? Dry humor is where I feel most comfortable and frankly, I’d like to feel comfortable again, not like my entire world just crashed around me in a rather rude manner. It was rude. I don’t like rude things.
In case you’re wondering, I do in fact cling to humor to deflect actual emotions. But, I’ve had enough actual emotions over the last eighteen hours, so I’ve done my time. Back to my comfort zone, thank you very much.
I asked my kids this morning their thoughts on me looking into working for another campaign almost immediately and that this time around I’d be even busier. They both scream hysterically at the top of their lungs. No, not in support, but in sheer rejection. So now there’s mom-guilt on top of devastation. That’s a fun combo, like red bull and vodka, which I drank once in my twenties and thought it tasted horrific. Which really does sum up everything I’m feeling. It tastes horrific.
Thank you for coming to my writing therapy session.