Dress Sizes

I don’t want to write about you, and how I don’t feel right inside when the gap between us is so wide or when we spar, everything inside of me wells up and there is no fresh air getting through – I don’t wear anger well, or the time you are away. I dislike how I feel primitive with my expressions.  Your vanilla and I am not, you rationalize, and I cannot.  You accept and I fight.  You’re inside the lines and I like it when I cross against the lights.   But when you wrap your arms, around me, there is only passion, and it swallows me completely and in that moment, I re-bloom.  With passion comes conflict and it’s not easy.  I think you prefer cerebral conflicts to the heat of a passionate heart.
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Some people have religion, the established sort that includes a church for worship, weekly dues, pews, weekly prayer meetings-pot lucks included.  While others practice their faith abridged, Buddha, Yoga, Love, Treadmill, Christianity or other—plus or minus anything that doesn’t suit their perspective.  I refer to this, as Point of View faith—self-judgment and reflection are something that a person defines and designs, from and for, their individual point of view, but I digress into my own POV.

I’m not a cynic, only a realist.  I grew up believing.  I poured out my heart daily and again on Saturdays to Father McNamara, but more importantly to the celestial heavens. I am even guilty of long-winded discourses, debates, compromises, and then there was that one time I let myself flow with the tide and accepted, full stop, no questions asked, the big guy and his son into my life.  I swallowed faith like a down an out, country-western singer does when slamming back their fifth or sixth shot of Jack Daniels.  I believed, oh how I believed.  I over looked the fine print:
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Hellos scare me, but once that two-syllable word passes through my teeth breaking the silence I breathe a sigh of relief knowing the worst is behind me.  Shy isn’t a word the six and no more than ten people I know would use to describe me.  In fact, if I told them I was blogging and they read this post they’d ask me—after giving me grief about having a blog and not telling them— if I had hit my head on the bathroom sink and was I suffering from a concussion.  They’d say you are not shy, anything but. 
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I smiled when I pushed open the doors to my local gym this morning.  It was the first time since joining that each one of the treadmills had a passenger. Having no choice I climbed up on the elliptical for my daily pain, popped the ear buds in and turned on my MP3 player.  It’s a new year, a new decade, and the perfect opportunity to start afresh. 

I don’t put much stock in annual resolutions, although I am guilty of having made one or two over the years. Having learned from my failures I know that if I am to be successful, these ‘resolutions’ can’t be annual events.  My psyche requires regular reevaluation and constant reminding, especially when I am committing to something as difficult as regular exercise routine.   I hate exercise as a rule, but since I like how it makes me feel—strong and agile—I recommitment regularly (really, I bribe myself daily).

The beat to a Black Eyed Peas song that had circled around on the MP3 player ignited me as the match does to the wick of a Roman candle.  In seconds, the sweat was running down my brow moving too swiftly for me to dab it off with my sweat rag and dripped onto my chest before settling into my t-shirt.  I wasn’t going to win a Hooter’s contest but when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but smile.  I was red faced and dripping sweat—I liked what I saw staring back.  I greedily gulped down the heavy air that wasn’t quite making the trip to the bottom of my lungs leaving me gasping.  I would feel fantastic later even though I was miserable about that moment when I remembered how much life is like exercise.        

It’s difficult and complex, it’s fun and exciting, it’s challenging and painful, and more often than not, there is no visible gain despite the effort put forth.  I’ve been working regularly for a year, and I’ve only managed to shrink one dress size.  I don’t have much to show for all that dripping sweat and weekly renewal to myself.        

 The annual reflection that comes at the end of the year begs the same question—what have I accomplished in the last three hundred-sixty-five days, or for that matter, the last ten years?  It is a daunting question to reflect upon, let alone try to answer, and for me, it’s a nagging life question that slaps me cold with violent frequency.  I say violent because I find myself standing guard on my own conscience to prevent an entry and subsequent hostile takeover.        

I battle my memories occasionally and end up condemning myself as well as the choices that I’ve made.  I am guilty of over-evaluation.  I catch myself revaluating major decisions and choices in my life under the guise of if I understand the past that understanding will balance the present, and eventually I’ll lay a plan for the future.    Of course, I know this is a crock of BS, which is why I stand guard.  There aren’t many points to beating myself up over all that I didn’t or might have done, scream to the gods in despair.  I am here now doing more than I have ever done.  That’s got to be a good thing, even if I only dropped one dress size last year.