Sometimes I think about what I write here and wonder if it’s even mildly representative of what my life is really like, right now, as I write these words.
Well, not really what my life is like right this second, because right this second I realized where the weird, soapy odor that has followed me around today derives – a sizeable clump of Lance’s dried up shaving cream stuck in my hair. Right now, as I write these words, I am a person who has something in her hair that has no reason being there, and who can’t quite figure out how to get it out.
In general, though. How am I doing? What am I doing? When I look back through this here blog years later, will I remember what 2010 was like? Or will I be presented with page after page of what DVD I bought and what children’s literature obscurity fancied me and exactly how cute my cat was?
So right now, this week, my life is consumed with these three things:
- An emotional breakdown (don’t worry, I’m prone to these, especially when the tension of a semester’s end lets me go. I just collapse for a few days)
- This pair of jeans I spent too much money on
The throes of my emotional breakdown (1) left me needing to change something in my life. Anything in my life. Anything that I could change, I wanted to change it.
So I changed how I wake up.
Instead of fighting with the snooze button, making breakfast, turning on the TV and vegging out on my laptop, I would do Something Else. Being horizontal so close to waking made leaving the house seem so terrible, made wherever I was going seem so dreadful, all this negative energy pooling in my idle limbs and my idle mind (1).
So instead, I would wake up, brush my teeth, check the weather to see how many layers to put on, plug in my earbuds and walk (3). This is a good idea because it’s a vertical, doesn’t require much brain power, doesn’t require much prep time, doesn’t requiring leaving and returning from a place since I basically live on a walking trail, and gives that a similar feeling to getting up for an early morning run… but without the pain of running.
I chose to ignore the mean voice in my head that said “But you should be running, because you have to be seen in a bikini in just a few months, and you’re too poor to buy a new swimsuit” (1), because the last thing I want to do in the morning is run. If I’m waking up to “run” every morning, I won’t get dressed. I probably won’t even get out of bed. I will get up to take a walk, though.
Also I was listening to one of my favorite books on audio, a book that reminds me of everything I love in this world.
I walk around the little pond. (3) About a mile.
And then I go upstairs and make breakfast and veg out on the computer and get dressed for work, but my willpower is usually strong enough at this point to keep the TV off.
And then I walk to work. (3)
One day a few months ago, the weather was nice and I decided to walk home. I was talking to my sister on the phone about her prom dress, and by the time my battery died, I was home.
Considering the time spent walking to/from the bus/train, waiting for the bus/train, and riding the bus/train, walking (3) was equally efficient. After a few weeks, the prospect of riding the crowded bus made me feel a little nauseous.
I started to walk (3) everywhere.
Yesterday, I walked around the pond (1 mile), to school (1.5 miles), to Trader Joe’s (1.3 miles), and back home (1.5 miles).
Last Monday, I walked from school to Filene’s Basement (1.9 miles) to buy a pair of jeans, because my go-to pair (purchased in 2003), had recently developed the Crotch Hole of Death… or, more accurately but equally disturbing, The Crotch Hole of Eminent Butt-Exposing Pants Rip (2).
I wouldn’t be so fearful if it hadn’t happened to me once in the Kroger parking lot.
But me being my idiot self (1), when faced in the dressing room mirror with two equally viable options, I did not choose the 30 dollar option. I chose the 99 dollar option.
I chose them because they were comfortable, looked nice, and fit like a dream. Or at least until I wore them a few times. Then they started to feel loose, make me look fat and slouchy, and were basically a size too big.
And me being my idiot self (1), I removed the tags.
So now I’m stuck with these expensive jeans (2), rubbing strangely while I walk everywhere I need to go (3), reminding me of what a big fat idiot I am (1). But I’m stuck with myself too.
So I get up every morning and put on my stretch pants that WERE worth the money and I walk around the pond and I try not to cry in public, when something strikes me with despair, like a lightning bolt. A crushed bird egg. The two goose families with their two fuzzy goose babies. A wrinkly faced dog. Something Barbara Kingsolver said about a tomato.
I try not to cry.
I try to like my jeans.
And I walk.
And I try not to get hit by cars.