I feel like I’m writing the same thing over and over. And over. I’m tired of looking at the words I’m typing. Mack and I broke up. I’m so sad. I’ll never have another boyfriend. I’ll be alone forever. And on and on. Ad infinitum. Makes me want to vomit the piece of banana nut bread I just ate. Which isn’t a bad idea.
I had a great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She was short and had black and gray hair she wore in a thick long braid, which she’d coil around her head. She was from Croatia. Only it was called Yugoslavia back then. She would say to me, “Pamelita, whenever you have troubles, don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about it; do something about it. Worrying is wasted energy. Use that energy to do something.” I’m paraphrasing here. Maybe she just told me to quit whining about whether the tomato plant we were digging a hole for would grow, and just dig the hole, put it in, and cover up the roots.
Here I am, whining about whether the future holds anything good in store for me. Whining about whether I did the right thing letting go of Mack. Whining about whether I’ll ever run a mile in under fourteen minutes. (I said I was slow.) I need to quit whining and just do something, for fuck’s sake. But what to do? What thing do I want to do to get me feeling like I’m moving toward something? I need a goal. I need a new passion. I need a reason for living. (Yeah, I’m a lawyer, and that’s not cutting it for me.)
There’s something I want to do. But apparently not badly enough, since I haven’t done it yet. Still, I think the perfect way to bust out of this straight-jacket I’m wearing is to get up every morning when it’s still dark and “run.” It sounds so romantic and passionate. And it appeals to the loner in me. I would feel very smug and self-satisfied if I accomplished this. Not to mention I would slim down and maybe break a ten-minute mile.
I wouldn’t have to get up that early. I could get up at 6:00, be out the door by 6:20 (I must have one cup of coffee!), and be back and in the shower by 7:30. I could get in a full hour every morning. Or I could start small and commit to just thirty minutes.
So what’s stopping me? It’s dark. And sort of cold. And there are two purring kitties in my bed. Purring. And fluffy. That’s much harder than getting out of bed when there’s a snoring man next to me. Also, I like to sleep. But often I have trouble sleeping, and so I may have just gotten back to sleep after lying awake for a few hours, when it’s time to get up and run. Of course, regular running should improve my sleep, so upon further examination, that excuse is bogus. I thought I had more excuses, but that’s pretty much it: I want to sleep; it’s dark and kind of cold; and there are purring cats.
Now, why would getting up be a good thing? It’s a test of my mettle. I can drag myself out of bed and be one of those people who’s serious about their running. If I do this consistently, I’ll undoubtedly get faster. Won’t I? I’ll be working toward a goal. I’ll overcome this inertia that has a hold on my ankles and is pulling me down into the black gooey muck of despair. My clothes, which have gotten quite ill-fitting over the past year, will loosen up again. And I’ll get into the goal jeans, buried somewhere deep in the back of my closet. I will be in charge of me. Instead of being a whiny little bitch, I will be back in charge of my life. Which now feels out of control. I’m so damn tired of feeling out of control. (Yeah, I’m a control freak. Any surprise there?)
So when do I start this little experiment? It has to be a real commitment. Otherwise, I’ll just set myself up for failure and self-recrimination. I have to start when the time is right and I’ve got a good chance of achieving my goal. Last week would have been bad. I worked until midnight two nights in a row to meet a deadline. I can’t get up and run at 6:00 a.m. when I’ve been up until 1:00 a.m. the night before. But that’s rare, and I’m just making more excuses.
Do I want to whine about being stuck, or do I want to do something about it? Why is it so difficult to find the motivation to pull myself out of this pile of steaming dung? Damn it! Where has my mettle gone?
Quit whining, put the tomato plant in the hole, and cover the roots.