Today was a pretty exciting day. I dropped a couple hundred dollars and registered to get certified in indoor cycling. I first started indoor cycling classes in 2010 and I remember telling George that I wanted to get certified to teach. I always talked about how I wanted to get certified, but never put my best foot forward to do so. Until now.
It was fun, but halfway through the 8 hour course, I started to really get sad. I wish he was around so I could tell him about the class. But he isn’t, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about how I wish he WAS home waiting for me. That goddamn empty apartment syndrome. It’s brutal as hell.
When we lived in Jersey City, our apartment complex had a few spin bikes, so once and awhile George would humor me and let me be the spin instructor and then afterwards he would critique how much he hated my music and how I talked too much. It was fun. We started to do spin circuits too, which consisted of you do a series of 3 exercises and then hop on the bike until the end of the song that was playing before starting the next round. We usually went for 10 rounds.
When I got home, I jumped in the shower, and immediately as the water started rushing down my back, I had a vivid flashback to one of the last bike rides we went on together; we biked to Hoboken and got lost and I got angry at him for getting us lost. I hate getting lost. He was always such a great sport about everything. I would get grumpy and he was always even keeled about it all. He allowed me to be mad, and just knew I would blow steam off and be back to normal. We used to always wonder if every George had a Julia and if every Julia had a George. I wish I still had my George. Why did my happiness have to be paired with something like this? This world can be brutally unfair, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m supposed to ever find peace? And at what price?
Grief has caught me in its unforgiving and menacing jaws tonight. Tomorrow, I might be slightly mangled, but I’ll get by. I’m a fucking survivor.