My work week has just doubled in size. As of last Thursday, I am approximately working between 61 and 82 hours a week until mid-July when hopefully that will decrease to just 60 or so. That’s right, kids. I am banking the cash (errr, paying off my credit card) and praying my agents don’t call me with audition appointments because I JUST DON’T HAVE TIME. I’ve been blessed (?) with a corporate job until the beginning of September, covering for a woman who is out on maternity leave. I already know that she gave birth last Thursday, that the labor was 25 hours and that it resulted in a botched c-section. Why? Why do horrible labor and delivery stories follow me every where I go?

The corporate demons demand my presence from 8:30-5:30 during the weekday and I’ve kept my part-time job at the twins, which begins at 6 pm, not to mention my 2pm-midnight shift on Saturdays. Not to mention I’m going away with them for the 4th of July from Sunday-Tuesday. Not to mention I have another babysitting gig in the Hamptons the weekend of July 8th. Not to mention I’m so tired I can’t breathe. Not to mention, above all this, I thought I would join the gym and take a 6:45 am spinning class yesterday morning before work.

Let’s just vocalize outloud what we’ve all been thinking for some time: How much crazier can I get?

Have y’all ever taken a spinning class? Do we understand the pure agony of a spinning class? I went into it assuming it would be difficult (a 45-minute non-stop cycling class with pulsing dance music and an overzealous instructor, CHECK!) but also having a bit of an ego, admitting I run a few miles every day, how hard could it be?! (Lance Armstrong wannabe, CHECK AND CHECK!) Um. I don’t know if it was because I’m more out of shape than I realize or if it was because it was 6:45 am OR if a spinning class is really God’s way of preparing me for being drawn and quartered in another life because, OH.MY.LORD.PEOPLE.

My muscles did not truly BURN as promised, they just sort of stopped working. My quadriceps and butt muscles just refused to endure such excruciating, ongoing affliction. They didn’t scream out, as they were overcome with lactic acid, they just refused to pedal. My muscles simply gave me the middle finger and stormed off the set. As the women in front of me cycled as if in the last leg of the Tour de France, I was lucky enough to attempt a few achingly slow rotations per minute. My instructor screamed to the point of whining as he furiously cycled and reminded us that he had FIVE MORE CLASSES LEFT TO TEACH. I blanked out most of what he said; I was too busy wheezing like an asthmatic.

I really was breathing THAT hard. The back of my throat burned and my heart raced like never before as I struggled to gasp enough oxygen. I seriously wonder now if I have asthma. Or, perhaps, pneumonia. OR MAYBE just a severe, deadly allergic reaction to intense exercise with a group of people that are skinnier than me. Spinning class is satan’s work. Truly. And therefore, I’m getting up tomorrow to try it again.

And so, at approximately 8:00 yesterday morning, I sweat out every last remaining molecule of waterfrom my body, I showered and dressed while trying to adhere to this company’s RIDICULOUSLY STRICT DRESS CODE. I spent 8.5 hours at my desk without time to take a lunch, but definitely with time to observe that I’m going to be stressed at this company and then I raced to the 6 train to get to my other job. THIS job, at least thankfully does not involve much beyond filling the dishwasher with bottles and trying to tell screaming 22 month-old twins that really, in America, we wear clothes. WE HAVE TO WEAR CLOTHES and I don’t know what is so difficult about putting your pajamas on seriously, boys, do you know how lucky you are?! I HAVE TO PUT ON MY OWN PAJAMAS EVERY NIGHT. WITH NO ONE’S HELP.

Sidenote: I think babysitting is spoiling me for parenting. When I give birth and go three months without sleeping more than two hours at a time and try to put pajamas on my screaming children who would rather be naked, who are throwing tantrums and also fried rice all over my pinstriped pants, I’m going to look at my husband, if he is even home from work yet, and casually mention, “You know, I used to get paid between $12 and $15 an hour for this shit.”

Point is. I get on the subway to go to MORE WORK and I’m tired. Tired from spinning, tired from corporate dramatics, tired because I need 10 hours of sleep to function properly because I am an old lady. As I stand up on the 6 train, there is a 10 year-old gangsta ghetto boy sitting near me, who is making fun of pretty much everyone in the subway car. Rather loudly. His older sister is trying to quiet him but she can’t help laughing and I rest my head on the back of my palm and close my eyes.

“Hey you!” the kid calls up to me, as I stand over him, clutching the filthy silver handlebar. “Yeah, you, Jessica SIMPSON!”

I suppose things could be worse. Jessica Simpson is HOT. This we know. Teenage boys everywhere daydream about how her boots are made for walkin’ and God knows what else. She’s not, however, known for being intellectual and so I’m mildly insulted. Until he says,

“No, no, ASHLEE SIMPSON! Hey ASHLEE SIMPSON! Yeah, yeah! You’re ASHLEE SIMPSON!”

I know he was teasing with the Jessica thing but Ashlee? She who lip synchs and yeah has some catchy tunes but is not only stupid but also ugly? WHY?! Why are kids so cruel? I learned my lesson in 7th grade, didn’t I? When my friends would gang up on me and call me annoying and I was left to listen to the Annie soundtrack in the privacy of my own room!? CRUELTY! And now, now I was the object of scorn from a TEN YEAR OLD GHETTO GANGSTA RAP BOY ON THE 6 TRAIN!

And then he started singing the words to that God awful Ashlee Simpson song.

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” he sang, “It feels like I can finally rest my HEAD ON SOMETHING REAAAAAAAL, I LIKE THE WAY THAT FEELS! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” and on and on, reciting word-for-word the entire song with interjections of “ASHLEE SIMPSON! YOU ARE ASHLEEEE!”

Obviously, not much has changed since 7th grade. I’m still a dork. I still listen to showtunes. I’m still misunderstood by my peers 99.9% of the time. However, I’d like to think that ten years later, I can at least stand up for myself sometimes. I’m not always strong enough but SOMETIMES, I can hold my own when oppressed, humiliated and/or hugely insulted as I was yesterday by this young boy. And so I took it upon myself to put him in his place.

As the train stopped at City Hall, the boy had finished singing and was looking at me with a grin as I readied myself to leave. Right before I moved, I gathered up my weary self, looked him in the eye and declared, “You must be the most popular boy in your school since you listen to Ashlee Simpson! It’s so cool that you know all the words to her songs!” The boy’s mouth dropped open and his sister fell over on the seat in hysterics.

I gathered whatever dignity remained and exited the train. Take that you little wiseass. Ashlee Simpson indeed.

Peace.