Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Consider My Thunder Stolen

Red Rocks Amphitheater - a gorgeous venue for attending concerts, a magnificent place for hiking, and a delightfully diabolical method of self-torture for those who choose to workout there. I happen to be one of those masochistic individuals. One of the crazies who feels the need to sprint and/or jump up flight after flight of stairs, until my lungs are screaming, my legs feel like they've been filled with hot lead, and I'm so fatigued that I can literally feel my abs compensating for my exhausted legs. Who even knew that your abs could compensate for your legs?

Yet, the sense of accomplishment I feel when I've completed my workout at Red Rocks is beyond compare. And that's why I do it. It's worth the brief spell of nausea I feel on the fourth, fifth, and sixth sets. It's worth the wobbly, oh-my-god-my-legs-have-been-replaced-with-jello feeling. And it's worth the horrible sense of despair that I feel on reaching the top at the end of the first set and realizing that I have nine more agonizing sets ready and waiting to make me feel like a pathetic human being. It's all worth it. Because when I get done, I feel like a god...or at least, how I think a god would feel.

Today was no different. I finished my workout, glad it was over, and privately elated when I made it to my car at the bottom of the hill without falling flat on my face. I got home excited to be done with my workout, and happy that it was lunch time, and turned on my computer only to have my awesome I'm-kind-of-a-big-deal-ness torn away by one little email.

You see, I've been waiting to hear back on a job that I really wanted for about a month now. After my interview they were pretty excited about hiring me, and were working diligently to create a position for me. It seemed like a match made in heaven. There was only one small hiccup in this equation - I'd like to be paid, and apparently, that makes this whole thing a bit of a no-go. Thus I didn't get the job - well, more accurately, they couldn't create the job for me.

So, in the midst of my post-workout euphoria, everything came to a screeching halt. The wind died in my sails, my thunder was stolen, and I sat there feeling a little like I'd been punched in the stomach. All because of one little, 2-line, email.

It's funny how bad news can emit such a physical response. It's also weird how news like that spurs action rather than complacency. Clearly, this wasn't the right job or the right time for this job. Who knows, perhaps I'm destined to become a world-renowned author, and this is just part of the process in getting there.

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