I have been very stressed and anxious this week — I lie in bed at midnight tearing at my hands and trying to calm the spinning hamster wheel that is my brain. In particular I'm worried about both Mom and Mimosa, who are not making good choices, which is driving me crazy.
I have this thought about many people — If you would just do what is so clear to me that you should do, your life would be exponentially better — but no one more so than Mom and Mimosa.
(I wonder if people have this thought about me? Well, I know Good Neighbor Anne thinks my life would be better if I exercised more, which is probably true.)
Usually I pride myself on my ability to handle stress. Between hot baths, prayer, exercise, writing, friends, and — yes, I'll say it — alcohol, I can usually turn any frown upside down. But for whatever reason, I could not shake the cloud of misery and malaise that engulfed me this week
Yesterday I was caught in such a spiral of anxiety, it felt to me like the only thing that would bust me out of it was a hard sweaty workout. But for one reason or another, the timing was never right.
Then last night I had an e-mail exchange with my awesome writer pal Sapphire Pen, who is hoping to have both her knees replaced and is seeking my guidance. She wrote:
How are you doing, my friend? Tantalize me by telling me the things you are able to do now that you have bionic knees!
And I thought: Huh. What am I going to tell her? I can go up and down stairs with relative ease, I can walk without pain, I no longer lurch from side to side like Charlie Chaplin . . .
. . . and I seem to have gained an additional 10 pounds???
This, I feared, was not the inspiring pep talk she was seeking.
So last night I committed — to her, to myself, to God and the universe — today was the day. I've been putting off a long multi-mile sweaty walk for too long now, and it was starting to feel overwhelming and scary. Which is simply ridiculous. It's a walk. One foot in front of the other. And no matter how slowly I move, as long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I will eventually reach my goal.
And I did it. I got up at 8, strapped myself into sneaks, tight capris, and my new polka-dotted sports bra (compression is my friend!), and I walked the Bike Path, the route that Good Neighbor Anne plotted out for me lo these many years ago, either 2.9 or 2.7 miles, I can't remember for sure, but I think 2.9.
|Terrifying, isn't it?|
I was ridiculously tired and sweaty afterward, which I suppose makes sense — I haven't walked that long or that far in, literally, years.
But I am also very proud.
I see my knee surgeon in three weeks for a six-month check-up; wouldn't it be amazing to be in significantly better shape by then? What can I do in three weeks? Is it time for a Boot Camp?
Let me think on this. Right now it's Chore Day at Chez Chardonnay, and I've got floors to vacuum. And I think I'll finish my workout with some weight-lifting, core work, and a long hot bath.
This weekend's library books: