I abuse my body.  No, not with sharp instruments so don't call a shrink.  It's my competitiveness.  I'm always doing something active.  If it's not riding, it's yoga, or strength training, or spin class, or being one of the Five Easy Pieces.  Being part of a band is a sport by the way.   And sometimes I do some of those in the same day.  Like the other day.  I got up at the crack of @#$, did a 6am spin class, yoga at lunch, a bike ride after work and rehearsed some music.  And for some reason I think I have to spin longer and harder than anyone else in the class, use heavier weights, do all the advanced yoga poses and jump around like a dufus on stage while performing with my band.  What's that all about?  Hey......maybe I do need a shrink. 

Needless to say the old girl ain't what she used to be and springing up out of bed in the morning doesn't happen over here.  OK - it's never happend because I'm NOT a morning person which makes those early morning spin classes rather comical.  It's called forced behavior....and no conversing pre-10am please.

There are two people whom I adore.  Chiropractor. Massage therapist.  They're like family to me.  I see them more than my own family.  Recently my massage therapist felt like it was her mission to work out all the bad stuff in my hamstring because I'm having major issues with it, which is causing my calf and foot to be jacked up.  I'm not talking about a massage where I put on a fuzzy robe, soak my feet in rose petals and get high off aromatherapy while listening to some Zamfir-king-of-the-Pan-Flute tunes.  This is hardcore, deep tissue, crying for my mama, bring my own rock n' roll music and talk trash about other people massage.  And I pay for this.  A couple days ago I'm on the table face down while she digs her elbow in my hamstring.  My muffled screams were heard throughout the building.   All of St. Matthews heard my best Linda Blair Exorcist imitation.  I was foaming at the mouth.  Cursing her existence.

Then she says it.  She informs me she's writing a book.  About her memorable clients.  Rut. Row.  So I innocently ask if I'm in the book.  Her response?  "Crack whore (she's so sweet to me) you have your own chapter, maybe two.  So no worries on your part.  I haven't mentioned any of you by your real names.  So look for her book, Naked People Talk,  in a bookstore near you.  It may be in an adult bookstore, but a bookstore no less.  She assured me again real names won't be used.  So that chapter(s) about the chick named Hampster?  Never heard of her.

Now it's time to marinate my hamstring, foot and knees in the homeopathic version of IcyHot.  I have a 50 mile bike ride to experience in the morning.  Then I'll let my fingers do the walking through the phone book to find a shrink.