When I cleared out my papers a few weeks ago, I found a gift certificate for a massage, thoughtfully researched by and sent from a colleague in another state last year. To honor that gift, I snagged an appointment for the day before it expired.
On the list of massage therapists, I saw my boot camp instructor from two years ago. Oh, how I loved that boot camp! At 6am sharp, this tiny, energetic woman barked orders at us, and we listened. Oh, we listened! A local judge was in our class. His wife made him take it. We were all sore as heck the next day, and all came back, faithfully, for the next class. Boot camp cracked me up, even when I was in agony. Naturally, I chose the boot camp teacher for my massage.
On the table today, we caught up. I apprised her of my widow situation, but we didn’t dwell. She’s pretty no-nonsense, and that’s what I like about her. We chatted about fencing and horseriding and crossfit and yoga. I admitted that I’m more yoga than crossfit these days. I admitted that I miss boot camp. I thought she was going to give me the “put your own oxygen mask on first” talk, but, instead, she said that this is a time to take care of a lot of important stuff. Boot camp will be there when I’m ready, and she does yoga, too, to ratchet things down, and she hasn’t done that for awhile. I found myself recommending the restorative yin class.
As she left she turned to me and said that there is no timetable for healing, that it sounds like my kids are doing great, and I should keep on keeping on. I was touched. And relieved. For a minute I thought (hoped?) she was going to make me drop and do 15 burpees.