Lassitude

noun

1. weariness of body or mind; lack of energy, listlessness.

2. a condition of indolent indifference.

3. the state of Erica the day after an intense spanking session.

I'm not telling you anything new here. For about 24 hours after I have a typical session, one where I run the gamut of emotions and end up drained and blissful, I am practically useless. Sleepy, addle-brained, limbs heavy, wanting quiet and solitude. This is why Monday sessions work so well for me; on Tuesday, I know to plan little. I do my work if I have any (although it taxes my mushy mind), maybe run a few errands or do some simple chores around my place, but little else. So I can bask in the heightened state of relaxation and let my body and mind return to normal at their pace.

But sometimes, we have to switch the sessions to Tuesday, like this week. And then the next day is Wednesday: a gym day. With one of my favorite classes to boot.

Ugh.

Yesterday, I scraped myself out of bed, went through all the proper motions (dressed, brushed my teeth, had breakfast and coffee), all the while wanting to crawl back into the warmth and darkness of my bedroom and keep the outside world at bay a bit longer. No, it's not like depression -- just the opposite. It's a bubble of dreaminess I know will break and dissipate soon enough, and I wish to stay within it a while longer. But alas, I am above all a responsible adult.

So I fire up the computer and, after checking email and blog comments and FetLife posts and so forth (priorities, you know?), I get to work. But everything confuses me. One file in particular is riddled with so many technical issues, I give up and email a list of questions to the client, and move on to something else. My mind drifts; I read the same paragraph over and over. Focus, Erica.

Before I know it, it's 3:00. I need to leave for the gym at 4:15. And all I want to do is drop my head onto the keyboard and go to sleep. So the bargaining begins. Come on, Erica. Wake up. You can do this. You know you have to get going. Find that energy.

Perhaps an extra jolt of caffeine will help. So I brew a large mug of strong coffee and down it quickly, only to remember after the fact that extra caffeine doesn't usually perk me up, it just makes me feel nauseated, and now I'm sleepy and queasy. Swell. Fake it till you make it, Erica. Go suit up.

I put the workout clothes on, eat an orange, splash some water on my face, put a bit of concealer on the dark shadows under my eyes. Out the door I go. Come on, energy. You can kick in any time. But it doesn't.

Arrive at the gym. Hey, most of the battle is getting there, right? I can do this now! Yeah, right. Drag myself into the locker room, sit down to change my shoes. Uh oh. I put my socked foot on the floor and discover it's wet from mopping. Oh no. I can't work out with a wet sock, can I? Perhaps I should just go home.

Nice try, Erica. Put your damn shoe on and get moving.

On the night of a spanking, my skin stings and burns for hours afterward. But by the next day, the surface pain has given way to a deeper one, settled within the gluteal muscles; a feeling like someone has pummelled my backside with boxing gloves. On Tuesdays, I have an awareness of this pain, but it doesn't really invade my consciousness.

But Wednesday, on the elliptical trainer, it comes screeching to the forefront. Every single revolution (all 5,216 of them) on that damn thing over the course of 35 minutes delivers a sharp shock through that area. My mind explodes with curses as my body struggles to get into a rhythm, into a workout zone, get those pain-masking endorphins going.

At long last, the torture is over. Sweaty, I step off the elliptical, drink some water, test my shaky legs. Part 1 is done. Now for Part 2: A one-hour muscle conditioning class. Including... guess what? Lots and lots of squats and lunges.

@#$%&*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Most of the time, by now, my energy and endorphins have fully kicked in and I zip through the class, enjoying the feeling of my muscles working and knowing it's nearly over and I can go home and enjoy Modern Family and Suburgatory. But last night, the languor never left. It was like the blissful, boneless state didn't want to relinquish its dominance before its time.

And then there was that damned muscular soreness again. We do a lot of squats in these classes, folks. This instructor doesn't put up with half-assed squats, either. "Get down low! Sit your butt back!" She even walks around the class, checking form, and gently chides those of us who aren't going deep enough. I normally love this woman and the way she teaches. Last night, I wanted to kick her perky ass.

But finally, after about five dozen glances at the clock that doesn't seem to move, the class is over. The workout is over. I did it, Yay, me. Still, if my workouts were this much of a struggle every time, I don't know how I could do them. Then again, I suppose my everpresent vanity would get me through somehow.

Yes, I know. I'm a woman of schedules and rituals. But they work. Throw them off and my world goes askew. Who knew that postponing a spanking for a mere day could cause such cataclysm?

I also know all of the above is what's known as "first-world problems" and this was very much tongue-in-cheek. :-)