So I Cried And Then I Wanted To Cry But I Didn't

Last week was rough on me. Because of the work-out on Saturday I was in pain from the waist up for most of the week and spent the rest of the week in a PMS-induced hormonal crying heap of a mess. There's no point in asking why I was like that, I just was. I left work Wednesday afternoon just so I could go home and lay in bed and wonder what in the fuckity fuck was wrong with me. Days later I still haven't figured it all out. What I do know is that my uterus is involved and I'm none too pleased about it. Thomas handled the whole thing beautifully, of course. He said and did every thing right and I've got to give him mad props for it. The man knows how to handle a crazy bitch when it's necessary.

I managed to suck it up for the rest of the week and thanks to booze and Midol I made it through the weekend without murdering someone. Go me.

I would also like to announce that I officially hate the trainer. She's all sweet and soft spoken and cute and slim and nice but deep down she's evil. Pure, unadulterated, evil. We worked the lower body on Saturday and 10 minutes into the 30 minute session I thought she was going to make me cry. Like all out balling my eyes out in pain. Why? Because she asked me to do 15 lunges while holding weights. God, I'm such a wuss. But I didn't cry though. Once again I sucked it up, finished the work-out, and then spent the rest of the weekend using the bathroom sink and bathtub to help lower me onto the toilet because my legs were so tight that I couldn't do it on my own and also walking like I've got a corn cob shoved up my ass sideways. Again, go me.

In the end I just hope it's all worth it...