It’s been over
30 days since I last put fingers to the keyboard to tell my story. Since I
write as a form of self-care / free therapy and not for an audience, there
really shouldn’t be any sense of guilt or shame associated with my failure to
maintain and update a blog that is likely read by no one (other than my husband
and my mother, and I can’t even guarantee that they’re reading this.) And yet .
. . one of my greatest strengths is my unique ability to should all over
myself, even when there is absolutely no rational reason to do so – which is
exactly what’s been going on lo these last four weeks.
I caught myself
jotting down a “should do” list while sitting at the airport the other day. Not
surprisingly, it contained the usual items like exercise, clean my closet, walk
the dog, and go to the dentist. (Sidebar: I notice that I write about going to
the dentist a lot. I want to go on record as explaining that I am not, in fact,
a Snaggletooth
but I am in need of a dental implant to correct an unfortunate and gory
incident that occurred at the clumsy hands of my former dentist several years
ago. This process is both time consuming and costly. I can have tooth implanted
or I can purchase three used Korean cars. I hope I’m making the right choice.) I
was shocked and horrified, though, to note that I listed “update blog” on my “to-do”
list! How did my hobby, my writing project, and my tenuous grip on normalcy get
all mixed up in this musterbation scheme?
Have I truly
fallen off the wagon? Am I giving in where I should be giving up? Giving up
where I should be giving it all I’ve got? Am I secretly making and breaking
resolutions? And does anyone other than me actually give a crap about my
progress anyway? Who am I kidding? Even I’m not that interested in my own
story.
Before I launch
into my progress report, I need to ‘fess up. I’ve fallen off the wagon a bit.
While I’m trying to give it all I’ve got, I’m definitely “shoulding” on myself
these days. I’m living with a whisper of discontent (which occasionally escalates
in volume to a full-on shrieking howl) and I can’t figure out how to silence
it, which means that I spend a lot of time in my own head. When I’m not trying
to figure out the meaning of life, I’m hosting a pity party for myself because
here I am, middle-aged, and I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to be doing
with my one wild and precious life. Instead
of giving it all I’ve got, I’m obsessing, ingesting inordinate amounts of empty
carbohydrates, and napping like it’s my paying job. All this shallow introspection is exhausting,
which makes me want to eat more salt, fat, and grease, which in turn makes me
want to nap again. Lather, rinse, repeat and you get the idea.
What’s my
problem, anyway? Whatever it is, you can bet it’s some kind of first world,
white girl problem. Although who am I kidding? I crossed over into middle-aged
white woman problems a long time ago, and I have the hot flashes to prove it.
Is it just another bout of my friend, clinical depression, paying me an
unwelcome extended visit? Is it a midlife crisis? Is it menopause? Is there
some weird reason that as women we feel compelled to link every mood swing to
our damn ovaries? Whatever the reason, I’ve got a case of the Weltschmerz. I somehow
thought that by my 40’s, I’d have life figured out. I’ve kissed frogs, found a
price, moved into a castle (if you define castle as, “split level with
excessive wood paneling that looks like the set of Three’s Company and
that is conveniently located right next door to my in-laws,” then yes – I do in
fact dwell in a castle. Should you use some other definition, well, bite me.)
and I have a FICO score I’m not ashamed of. With the exception of my chronic
hypertension, depression, and my current dental woes, I’m healthy, building wealth
in my 401(k), and if gray hair is any indication, also quite wise.
But . . . I can’t
sleep at night; I can’t stay awake during the day; and days when I actually
wash my hair are so few and far between that they qualify as holidays in several
developing nations. Every morning, when my feet hit the floor, I don’t think
about how grateful I am to be alive – instead, I wonder, “Is this all there is?”
and on work days, “Can I really do this for another 20+ years?” The voices in
my head are a broken record – and frankly, they are singing a tune I don’t much
care for. Yet I’ve been stuck.
Have I given up
on giving it all I’ve got? Not exactly. But progress has been slow as I’ve
fallen back into my old ways, old habits, and the valley of self-pity. Here’s
the current scorecard, for anyone who is either reading or keeping score:
Give Up: Aside from giving up on basic hygiene
and any socializing that requires me to bathe; put on big girl pants (I like to
wear my furry Cookie Monster pants all the time, thank you); leave my bed; or
interact with humans, I haven’t given up much by design. I realized belatedly
that I may have given up on myself, which is not exactly the way this little
experiment was supposed to pan out. I’m disappointed to find that I’ve abandoned
my writing; ashamed at what I perceive to be my lack of determination or
willpower or whatever it is that normal people have; and wondering when I
decided to throw up my hands and act like a victim of my own life. WTF, Princess?
Give In: I’m going through the motions. I get
up, I go to work, and I show up and do what I’m supposed to do. I put one foot
in front of the other. I’ve given in to the depression and I’m ready for it to
move on. I feel so disconnected from everything – like I’m watching my life
happen on the world’s least interesting reality program – and although I nod,
smile, and respond when and where it’s expected, I’m not really present. If
anyone has noticed, they haven’t commented on it, which leads me to believe
that we’re all awfully busy being lost in our own heads and our own shit and
most of us are preoccupied with the “all me, all the time” show anyway. I’m ready
to change the channel, personally.
Giving It All I’ve Got: I’d love to tell you that I’m giving it
my all, but let’s keep it real. I have to give it all I’ve got just to get out
of bed and fake-function as an adult. I have good days, I have bad days, and I’m
proud to say that I haven’t abandoned the goals I shared with you at the beginning
of the year – but I’ve had to learn to be gentle with myself and to practice
forgiveness when I don’t meet my own unreasonable expectations.
150 days of
food logging on MyFitnessPal has helped me be a more mindful eater . . . most
of the time. I have cheat days – some by design and some by accident – but
instead of lying to an app that I’ve voluntarily installed to help me be
healthier or giving up on food logging, I log my dates with Ben & Jerry and
vow to try harder tomorrow. Guess what?
I’ve even managed to lose some weight – and more importantly, I now think
before I eat . . . most of the time.
I’ve missed a
few workouts with Big Bad Trainer. But I’ve tried to compensate by getting some
cardio in, and I even bought a “wearable fitness tracker” with a Groupon to
help motivate me to be more active. It primarily serves as an additional source
of guilt and shame, but I’ve been wearing it religiously and I do catch myself
parking further away from the door or squeezing in a quick dog walk to increase
my step count for the day. In other news, no woman ever achieved 10,000 steps a
day while wearing heels and a suit. Unless she’s a mutant.
I’m still thriving
– my eight week experience
has extended beyond eight weeks, and it’s become part of my regular routine.
Since I’ve managed to lose about five pounds – due to diet, exercise, or
Thriving or some combination thereof – I’m going to keep doing what works.
Lastly, I’m
giving all I’ve got to being a cheerleader for the people I love. I am so proud
of my high schooler for completing a very challenging junior year with honors
classes, AP tests, jobs, teenage hormones and anxiety, and two trips abroad.
She makes me proud every day and I can’t wait to see what her senior year and
beyond bring.
And then there’s
my prince. He started interning at a treatment center two weeks ago – and it is
so inspiring to watch him spread his wings and fly. I’m only marginally jealous of the fact that
he’s figured out what he wants to be when he grows up while I continue to struggle with that question in my own
life. J
I haven’t given
up yet – I’m still writing and still fighting – even if no one is reading or
watching!
