Which I was not this morning at 6am. So I bailed and the gym had to find a replacement at very, very short notice. Not because I didn't think to cancel yesterday, but because I did think to cancel yesterday and Insane Boss told me to wait and see and cancel today if I needed to. He's not the poor sucker who needs to find a replacement though, so I feel guilty. and I feel guilty for letting the class down because, while I sound like I think I'm fabulous and the class LOVES me, I, uh, actually am and yes, they do. It's not an ego thing for me either, this being fabu thing. I'm just so glad that the class, whatever class I teach, gets so much value and learning from what I ahve to offer. The sidebar is that I don't do a great job, I do THE job, and that virtually every other instructor I hear about fails to do more than just get a class moving any old how, is disappointing. As a profession (for I really see it as that. A profession), we have the potential to change peoples' lives. We are in a position where people will listen to us, so we OWE it to them to provide the most accurate, most helpful, and best suited advice we're able to find. My job is not to get a class moving, it's to help them use that class to improve the rest of their life, to utilise the forty five minutes we have together once a week to make fitness gains, and strength gains, and develop postural habits that will afford them a better life. Most, unfortunately, learn bad habits, and make very few functional strength gains, and while they may be making fitness gains, are the sum of those gains and habits improving the 167 hours of the week that are NOT spent at the gym?
Or maybe I really need to get over myself?
So yes, I have a headache and generally feel yuck, but because it's not a REALLY bad cold or a BLINDING headache, I feel guilty. I could have worked. It is, after all, forty five minutes of my life, but at 6am, that forty five minutes being spent in a humid, heated pool area seemed like a really bad idea, the kind that makes your head thump a little bit harder. So instead of getting out of bed, I called in sick. Even though I could have done it. I could have not made whoever it was frantically search for a replacement instructor, I could have not let the class down, and I could have not let myself down because I feel guilty for all of the above, and for the 22 bucks I didn't make which might not sound like a lot but which adds up and makes it something I really, really need.
And what am I doing instead? Well, after downing a couple of HUGE aspros, I'm sitting here and bitching about my guilt issues. In short, I'm making fine use of my free time. Daniel is in my lap too, and is getting a kick out of the letters moving in front of him. He was playing in the bedroom earlier while I wandered around feeling overwhelmed by the toddler sized mess spread out all over the floor when, heralded by the distant "toot" of a train, he raced out and headed for the big front window, Thomas in hand, muttering "a twain come, a twain come, twain come". The description belies the absolute cuteness if his little legs pumping hard to get to the window in time to see the train come rushing past.
Of course, he can't see it unless I hold him aloft and above fence height, so I did that, the train thundered past, and then we both waved bye bye to it. The regular commuters must think we're the friendliest train watchers ever.
We get a train about every...gee, I don't know. Twenty minutes or so? between 6am and 6pm every day, and we mostly greet every one of them. Even after all this time, (I don't know how often they come) Daniel still gets a very cheap thrill out of seeing them. As, I should probably be ashamed to admit, do I. I've never minded living alongside a train line. They don't come often and you learn to filter the noise and listen only for the excitement of a train rushing by. In the morning when they start up, Daniel will sit on the edge of the bed and look at the closed blind, whispering "a terwain, a terwain" at the appropriate times. Today though, was the first time he's strung three words together and lost the superfluous "er".
My little boy is growing up.
I've been quite busy this past week, which is odd because in reality, I've only worked an extra few classes, so I'm not quite sure how that works.
I taught the Vietnam vets last Wednesday, of who (whom?) three showed up out of an initial group of...substantially more than that. I think the lack of consistent instructor has got to be at least partially responsible for the drop off in attendance, and that's sad. I mean, how is a group of not regularly exercised "older" (I use quotations because 59-62 doesn't seem "older" to me. Possibly because I'm old too) people meant to form a consistent habit if their instructor can't commit to the one single hour a week they signed up for? And the instructor is, at least, getting paid (well) for it. I wouldn't feel compelled to return each week to create a habit of activity if the person contracted to meet my physical needs kept changing. I guess I find it more annoying too, this wishy washy instructor situation they've had, because these guys are war veterans, forgodsake. I noted on several of their sign up sheets, PTSD, which, god. Ni kidding. There's a lot of agoraphobia, too. Heartbreaking, some of the strings of psychiatric conditions these guys have, and to think they've likely been dealing with that amount of anguish for at least thirty six years. One of the guys mentioned today that they'd served at the same time, but I don't know if they actually served together. What a nightmare that war must have been. Hand to hand combat like that, not knowing who the enemy was. It's amazing any of them got through at all with their faculties intact.
There was a couple of extra aqua classes to teach at the gym too, and a circuit class Thursday morning. The extra aqua classes meant I exercised my "I ask because it's the right thing, not because it's something I need you to do" muscle, and asked Strep to babysit Daniel.
I can't begin to describe how much of a headfuck it is for me, the leaving of my son in the hands of that man, so I won't even try.
I'm eating lunch as I type this and guess what it is?
Sounds like "far teen".
Go on, say it out loud.
I slay me.
Focus aibee, geez.
In related news though, it's not much fun eating sardines mashed into pumpkin with braces on your teeth. I'm just sayin'.