Therapy

It wasn’t really about the meeting, just what the meeting prevented.

Pool time. Two classes.

Still, a commitment is a commitment. I’d go to the meeting and miss the pool classes. I’d be a grown up.

Short weeks often seem the longest, and the start of this week was a harbinger of strangeness. Yesterday’s rampant weirdness ran into today and . . . I don’t know. There may not even be a word for today. Today was the Monday-est Wednesday ever, and it just kept going! As the pile of weird grew deeper and muckier, my frustration at being responsible — at going to a meeting instead of class — also grew deeper and muckier.

My ever-present crabbiness spread exponentially; I was in a days-long mood. The thought of missing the one thing beyond writing that consistently helps my state of mind was distressing me. I know that sounds ridiculous — like I’m being a whiny baby. Maybe I am. I don’t know and I’m not sure I care. What I do know is the thought of missing two pool classes — for whatever reason — was bringing me NO joy. None.

Here’s the thing.

I’ve had a rough stretch and I can’t identify the cause. Of course I know the deep-down cause, but I don’t know what shoved me several steps backward. I’ve learned these rough stretches happen and I have to handle them — such a practical, logical statement in the daylight. A thought that mocks me through long dark nights. I know my current intense pain will subside again, at least for a while, but knowing isn’t everything.

When I’m wide awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding from a terrifying dream, knowing isn’t everything; knowing is nothing. I’ve spent hours tossing and turning, thrashing in a tangle of sheets and sadness this past week. The certainty of daylight means nothing when I can’t quiet my mind in the darkness. Those sleepless nights are maddening.

Today’s work weirdness finally reached critical mass when a broken water line at school meant the water would be turned off indefinitely. Meeting canceled. Again, it’s not about the meeting; I am friends with the other people on the affected committee.

It’s about the water therapy. That’s what I should call my pool time, whether I’m in a class or on my own — water therapy. The hours I spend in the pool are absolutely therapeutic, and in so many ways.

Tonight’s first class was aqua HIIT, the most physically demanding of the classes I take. There’s no time to think or be sad or spiral down; I’m far too busy trying to breathe. I wasn’t my best HIITer tonight, but I kept up and did the best I could. Four hours later, and my legs still tingle-ache-burn. That’s probably a good thing. I worked hard. It didn’t kill me.

I feel something other than heartache. That’s definitely a good thing.

The second class was aqua yoga. It’s my prize for enduring the HIIT class. It’s a prize. In that class, my brain goes where it goes. Sometimes, it wanders into Cooper territory, but not always; frequently, my brain is evaluating my wobble, checking to see if my little toes are grabbing the bottom of the pool. Asking, “Am I doing this right?” My brain reminds me to get my shoulders away from my ears. No tension allowed in that class.

The HIIT class and the Tuesday/Thursday aqua Zumba classes take effort, and I push myself to do better or more each time. These classes strengthen my body and work my heart; I feel and see the progress. Yoga requires a different type of effort and yields a different type of progress. Yes, I’m more flexible. Yes, my core is stronger. But beyond the obvious is the most valuable; yoga fortifies my mind. I’m learning a new breed of confidence in what my body can do, no small feat at 50. As my body bends and stretches, my mind reshapes itself around this new reality.

My body adjusts. My mind adjusts. I adjust.

No, it was never about the meeting. I just hate to miss therapy.