I have discovered my own personal secret recipe for optimism:
              - five parts sunshine
              - three parts sleep 
              - two parts exercise

     Well, I suppose it was never really a secret. I’ve known most these things for quite some time, but it’s always easier said than done. For one, I can’t control the weather (clearly if I could, we wouldn’t have had a solid month of rain and dark clouds).  For another, I’ve had insomnia my entire life—the kind that no pills, natural remedies, soothing music, or even a tall glass of vino can seem to fix. And lastly, well, let’s be real—exercise, like optimism, is just plain hard.

     But then a miracle happened. For reasons that remain unclear, I woke up naturally on a Saturday morning at 9 a.m. without an alarm clock. Now, I wake up Saturday at all sorts of hours between 6 a.m. and noon without an alarm clock. This is not the miracle. The miracle was that I felt awake. I felt energized. I felt rested. I felt what I imagine other people must feel every day of their lives. The miracle is that rather than rolling over and proceeding to sleep in for another four hours per usual, I rose from beneath my soft mountain of covers and skipped to the kitchen to greet my roommates, who were surely in shock to see me in the still-single-digit hours of a weekend morning.

     “Good morning,” I cheerfully said to them, and possibly for the first time ever, I think I meant it. (For the longest time, I used to just reply to this greeting with a simple “hey.” It was bad enough I was awake, tired, and cranky, but I was expected to go around lying to everyone about how I felt too?)

     Following my morning miracle came another from Mother Nature. The sun, which I’m certain was on strike the last seven months, reappeared in all its optimist-inducing glory. With two parts of the recipe in place, I knew I had to push on with the third and biggest miracle of them all: I was going to exercise! Ok, I suppose I jog or use the elliptical now and then, but I’d really been slacking lately. This was going to be serious. I was off to finally cash in my Groupon for a month of unlimited workout classes at a nearby “fitness boutique.”

     I signed up for a 10 a.m. Zumba class. I had taken such a class once before about two years prior, and I seemed to remember enjoying it. I remembered it being fairly easy to follow and working up a decent sweat. I didn’t remember dying from it or feeling stupid. I can do this, I assured myself.

     I entered the facilities and immediately felt intimidated. I’ve never liked gyms. The people that go to them are always already perfectly toned, making you even more self-conscious about your body and lack of fitness abilities. But I pressed on, ready to work up a sweat and release those much-needed endorphins.

     I entered the Mat room, where the intimidation continued. All the girls seemed to know each other (another sign that they come often, and are therefore already in shape). I also took note of a tall, muscular, handsome young man doing push-ups outside the room. Men? Men aren’t supposed to take these kinds of classes. It’s Zumba! Oh dear God, tell me he’s not in the class or I’m walking out. Oh thank the Lord, he just left. You’re safe. Then in walked a short, voluptuous, incredibly energetic Spanish woman—our instructor. Could she have any more optimism? Seriously. Save some with the rest of us. In her hand she possessed tiny rattles, which she instructed each of us to take a set of. Oh good, just what I need. Let’s draw more attention to me making a complete and total fool of myself. On the plus side, I have musical training. I should at least be able to keep a beat with the rattles when all the rest fails. 

     Introductions were made and the vivacious senorita, who so kindly pointed me out as the new kid, commenced on with the class. I’ll walk you through that simply with the use of a bulleted list of my stream of consciousness that took place over the next ten hours of my life. (I don’t care what you say. That was not an hour! Time stopped.)

• You got this. Ok, she’s going a little fast, but no big deal. You’ll catch on.
• I thought I liked dancing, but it just hit me why I only do it while under the influence. Only then am I dumb enough to think that I look like I know what I’m doing. Is it too late to leave? Cause, um, this is hard.
• It’s getting a little hot. Kind of tired.Ok, no worries. This is good. Burning calories. You can do this.
• Sheesh, I look fatter in this mirror than usual. Is my mirror at home one of those skinny mirrors like at the carnivals? Or is it just the contrast from standing next to these stick-figured girls? Someone give them a pizza already! They prolly can’t afford to eat after the cost of this gym.
• I really thought I had the curves for these movements (ya know, as so many have kindly called them—my “childbearing hips”), so why do I look so utterly ridiculous right now?
• Shake what your momma gave you? What my momma gave me is a jiggly ass and no coordination.
• Did she really just say “crump it”? Am I “crumping” right now? Nope, you just look like a jackass. Thank God I don’t know anyone here.
• Ok, really starting to get tired. Oh good, the music stopped. Surely we’re at the cool-down point by now. Annnd no, another song started. OK, but it’s definitely the last one. It must be the last one.
• Why isn’t anyone else sweating as much as me? 
• I think I may be dying. What does a heart attack feel like? What if I start to have one? What happens if you work out too hard? What if I faint? God, that’d be embarrassing. I’m going to faint. I just know it. I’m approaching a faint…
• My legs have stopped moving. I cannot move my legs. I cannot bend them anymore. Work legs, work. I think I’m paralyzed.
• Hey look, if I just jump at the right places, then it looks like I’m getting the movements, which FYI, I’m definitely not even close to getting. I’m just going to stand still and jump when they do. Ta da, I’m fooling them.
• Man I need a water bottle. I didn’t bring one because the Groupon promised me a free one at my arrival, which I didn’t get. If I leave to get a glass of water in the lobby, are people going to laugh? Can I leave? I need to leave. Maybe I’ll leave and not come back.
• OK, after this song, I’m leaving.
• OK, after this song, I’m leaving. 
• OK, a girl just left. If she left, I can leave. After this song I’m leaving. (I left.)
• (Upon returning from water break.) Perfect, this is the fastest, most difficult combination of all of them, and I missed the instructions. Spin, jump, shake, salsa step, jiggle, rattle, twist, bend, leap, cry in agony…. Oh screw it. I don’t even have the energy to fake this anymore.
• Surely it must have been an hour now.
• Seriously, another song?
• Oh my God, what if this is the Apocalypse? That’s it. That’s what this is. The world has ended and this is my Hell on Earth—this class just really is never going to end. Time to pray. Hail Mary, full of Grace…
• Hey, I think I’m getting it. Look, I’m in step. Wow, I’m awesome. I’ve conquered Zumba! Annnd then she changed it again. Good effort.
• Cool down? Stretch? It’s finally here!!! Ohhh thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I’m going to go savor my life and live every moment as if it were my last. I did it. I made it. I’m alive. I survived the longest fitness class that ever was! 
• So glad I only signed up for a month of these classes, cause by the time I recover from that and am dumb enough to forget the torture and sign up for another, my membership will have expired.
• Oh, look, free orange slices. I should take two since I never got my free water bottle. Big liars. Just like they lied about the length of the class. I’m onto your scam.

      Even though for the entire length of the (ten hour) class, I promised myself I’d never endure that torture again, I must admit that I left feeling pretty good. If I could survive that, I could do anything. I bet I could run a marathon! Nevermind I couldn’t climb the stairs to my apartment afterward, I still felt invincible. I was a renewed person. I was convinced I could keep the optimism going. As I go to bed tonight with my glass half-full, I’m setting my alarm for 8 a.m. Tomorrow, I will get up even earlier, this time to master yoga. What better way to continue on with improving my mental well-being?

Update: At 8 a.m. on Sunday, I hit the off on my alarm and went back to sleep for, shockingly, several more hours. It appears my secret recipe still needs some adjustments. As I limp in pain, I wonder if this means toning (no pun intended) down the two parts exercise? At least for today.