Talk about a result. I finally went back to the gym on Friday, and managed an achingly sore 30 minutes. The small of my back was the sore of my back and my hips hurt with it. Saturday before Neal came I managed 35 much less painful minutes. Sunday was too freaking cold to leave the house but today I am proud to state I did 42 minutes. I’ve erased the effects of a week and a bit off sick. Even my body can be amazing when it needs to.
As I was walking along the other day I was watching some guys play basketball. One of them was particularly exciting to watch; not because he was good-looking (although he was indeed) but because he would explode into action whenever he had the ball. It was exhilarating to see him go, and I realized he didn’t come out of a box that way. I had to ask myself how much I’d cheated myself out of by the choices I’d made. How much fun and how much confidence did I avoid by always taking the easy way out?
I can’t say it would have been just as easy, just as undemanding, but what I keep thinking about is that there was a time when I could have run up and down the court, when doing that didn’t seem impossible, a ticket to an early heart attack, too hard, when visions of me smashing the floorboards didn’t come up, but I would still avoid it. I’m not deterministic enough to say I’ve closed the door on my athletic self forever, but I’ve certainly given myself a much more arduous time to open it. I’m literally wearing my past, and my every decision in this area. But then we all do, don’t we?
I know, I know; I’m just walking, sometimes slow, sometimes moderately less so, on a treadmill. I’m not running a marathon or power lifting or anything really admirable like that. So can my thoughts run, but I’m really trying not to give in to that kind of thinking – it’s the kind of thinking that has absolutely done for me in the past. It’s self-sabotage masquerading as realism, it’s the little inward insistent voice telling me that I oughtn’t bother, that I’m ridiculous, that I’m out of my league, that I’ve gone above my place in life. It’s not realism though until I help it become real; until I put my self-talk ahead of self-care. I hate that little voice even as I admit it’s been my companion and despised guide nearly all my life. I’m no longer interested in who birthed it, or where it came from, just in how fast I can get rid of it. It may have been protective but it’s the protection of embalming. It’s well past its sell-by date.
Just to reassure you I don’t actually hear voices in my head; other than my own voice running easily down familiar channels, channels that I have to change.
It was a good weekend. Saturday night my friend R.K. came over to dinner with his wife and children and we had a very enjoyable time. After they left C said “I’d forgotten how nice and down to earth they are.” They really are. Today I should have done a bunch of errands but you know what a holiday is like – the littlest tasks seem to go on forever.
And in some bad news, a former coworker of C’s passed away last week. 😦 It’s always a pisser when you hear of that happening. My deepest sympathies to her husband, son, and daughter.
I heard on the radio today that this Monday, the third of January, is the most depressing day of the year – your bills from Christmas have just come in, while you’ve realized you’re not keeping your new year’s resolutions. I’ll put up a scorecard of mine later on – I’m not terribly bad and some have in face until the end of January to be completed but the list is a … work in progress. Yes, that’s the ticket.
Chuck is back this Thursday – I won’t be answering the phone while he’s on.
I’ve been watching some DVDs from Netflix of the Mary Tyler Moore show. I used to love the show when it was on back in the seventies – I used to want to be somehow just like Mary or have a life like hers – all light and frothy and fun and just like on TV. My favourite so far was the episode 1040 or Fight which starred Paul Sands; who both C and I thought was cute (back then). Paul Sand, Paul Michael Glazer – I had a thing for craggily handsome rumple Jewish neurotics – macho versions of Woody Allen – even back as a pre-teen! Click on his pic to see Mr. Sand way back when.
The Dirty Guy – Remember When?
Mike Rowe, our current filthy obsession, used to sell crap on QVC. He wasn’t a total robot and was given to some pretty funny ad-libs while trying to push whatever junk it was he was told to push:
Can you imagine having to make that look interesting? I do think he’s gotten handsomer as he’s aged. Here’s a more luscious view of our favourite grimy guy…click him to indulge your fantasies about indulging his. Love that chest.
I have to ask – was the mini-obsession guy popular with people?
I’ll try to blog again later tonight.
(Indulge his what, precisely, I hear you wonder….)