Endorphin Block...

Ok, first it was blogger's block, which all by itself was fairly sucky...

But now I've extended the suckage to include an inability to kick my ass at the gym:-(

I did a 30 minute sculpting class on Monday that hurt me bad for a couple days, but since then I haven't been able to reach the level of intensity in my spin class that I've really grown to crave (allright, it's more like an endorphin high that I've become addicted to, seriously).

I used to sweat so much during spin that it would drip on the floor under me and soak my clothes (gross, I know-- and at first it really creeped me out). Then after a couple weeks the perspiration dropped off a bit, but it was still enough to get in my eyes and fog up my glasses. But NOW, even tho I've been cranking up the resistance to crazy high levels (19 today) and spinning my pedals as fast as I can, I can barely break a sweat, barely get winded... in fact, instead of collapsing yesterday after my spin fix like I usually do, I still had so much pent up energy that I did a sculpting class AND Zumba afterwards, and could have probably done one more class if I wasn't overdue for a meal and a little dizzy. Gar! I felt so dissatisfied.

Is it all that common to max out so soon in fitness classes? Or have I just hit a strange plateau, where all my muscles have grown accustomed to their daily abuses and are like "yawn, bitch. Is that all ya got?"

Granted, I am on cold medicine cause I can hardly breathe as I have something nasty a brewin...

Is sudafed like some sort of exercise meth? And if I keep taking it before class, will I end up looking all haggard like those people in the "after" photos you see on the Oprah show??

Cyndi before spin class:

Cyndi *after* spin class:

Sheeeoooooot! Maybe it's time to cease with all the exercising for a bit and chill out on the couch with a tasty box o donut holes.... for my health, after all. I mean, I already feel like an endorphin withdrawing crack whore who can't score her next fix, no matter how many tricks she turns; don't want to find myself on an intervention episode of the Tyra Banks show, dressed in spandex... (at least not until I lose those last 10 #, tee hee).