I’m not ready.

“Sarah, you’ll always find excuses to not take your steps.”

My coworker said that to me a couple weeks ago, and it was like lightning buzzed through my body when he said it.  I was bent down, picking trash up off the floor of the Boys & Girls Club BOTT Lab we worked in together, telling him about how exhausted I was. My feet hurt from wearing (super-cute) ankle boots, and I just didn’t feel like moving. The FitBit clipped to my pocket has a pedometer, and I wanted to top the 7,200 steps I’d taken the day before, but I was drained. Teaching Spanish to rowdy middle and high school students all day, then dealing with boisterous elementary students after school (picture the Braveheart battle advance scene, but with 200 elementary kids and no bloodshed, and that’s my Boys and Girls Club, how I love it), sapped me. Había terminado.* Then Savontai said that sentence, and it was a whole new ballgame in my head.

Flashback (for context):

On Aug. 1, 2014, a Massive Thing happened in my life. Long story avoided (because it’s uber-personal and I’m not about to put all that out there just yet), the life I knew was radically changed. All I’d spent my previous 27 years alive seeing, experiencing, believing in, was shifted, along with many of the fragile healthy habits I’d spent the previous few weeks building into my life (More context: I’ve never been one of those naturally thin people, nor have I ever been one whose health was both a priority and an easy thing to manage. So the fact that I’d successfully managed to get into a yoga, running, and HIIT routine over the course of a few weeks was a BFD. Then the Massive Thing happened, and life got flipped turned upside down).

Doo doo-do-do-doo, doooo do

My routine disappeared over the next week, when my sole focus became finding comfort in a simple routine, and so it has basically remained. My autopilot function involved retreating into books, magazines, movies, relationships, and generally avoiding everything that forced me to think about what was happening. I’m a patron of talk therapy (so helpful) and have an amazing counselor I see every couple weeks, though I bumped up to weekly sessions in light of the Massive Thing, and those sessions frequently devolved into tears. It’s taken me the better part of the last year+2 months to get to a place where I don’t cry at the thought of the Massive Thing, and instead need puppy commercials or 90-yr-old-man-sings-their-song-to-his-dying-wife viral videos to provoke sobs, which I’ll call progress.

Meme proposal: Therapy Squirrel is Listening:

She’s hilarious. Find a good therapist, peeps.

Within the safety and security of that autopilot, nurtured along by the emotional support of my truly incredible S.O., I found stability, along with a slowly growing waistline. My guy, and I say this with all the love every atom of me contains, eats like a horse and has absolutely nothing but energy to show for it. I, being a “Cool Girl,” try to keep up (‘What am I thinking,’ you ask? Because every grown woman knows we can’t eat like guys and keep our girlish figures? Eff that-I was thinking the pizza and casseroles and soups and steak and pasta was freaking delicious and I wanted some of that, so hells yeah I tried to keep up. We eat GOOD.).

Omnomnomnomnom

Only, obviously, keeping up caught up. I needed new jeans because my old ones ripped at the inner thigh seams, the faded whisker lines worn thin from friction. My black dress pants pilled and tore open in the same place, from the same reason, only now the areas of wear and tear were moving farther down my thighs, creeping closer to my knees than ever before. The idea of skirts and dresses without shorts underneath? Terrifying. My adorable high heel collection has gathered more dust than a Wyoming windowsill. My usual shirt size failed to be reliable purchases without trying on beforehand. Those cutoffs I lived in before the Massive Thing happened couldn’t breach my hips, let alone up and buttoned with just enough room to spare.

And so, I’ve hid. I’ve avoided. I’ve dived into the comfort food, the comfy clothes, and the comfortable routine head first, but I’ve effectively broken my body in that dive.

I’ve known I needed to take better care of my health and body for a long time, but I was never ready to do the work needed to make that happen. I needed more time to myself, more quiet in my mind, more space to fully embrace my introverted-ness. I’ve spent years and dollars and energy searching for excuses, finding them each time I sought them. I desperately clung to the ability to avoid it all. I wasn’t ready to take the steps.

“Sarah, you’ll always find excuses to not take your steps.”

It’s a process, re-introducing all those healthy changes. It’s requiring more time than I want to invest, more focus than I have, and more energy to build the momentum than I have. I’ve quit a job I love, because I need that time to take care of myself now-and I’m doubting that choice every day because I so dearly love my Club kids, and the income it brings every two weeks makes student loans feel almost less of a burden, but I know I need to do it. I’m cutting back on perks I honestly can’t afford but make room for because it makes me feel like a more successful adult-Starbucks Gold Status until 2017 is a reality for me, but, and I just did the math here, I’ve spent approximately $800 on Starbucks in the last calendar year (between the app and the site, I’m only able to see my reload transactions through May 1, so I multiplied that amount by 3), and ohmigawd. I’m doing the work to make those life-long changes stick, but it’s work I don’t want to do.

I’m still not ready, but I’m taking the steps.

*I think I used that sentence in the wrong context, but in my defense I’m just an intro Spanish teacher and am not fluent, so ¡lo siento! (it’s a long story)

Pic creds: mlb.com, pinterest.com, niagarafallsreporter.com

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About sunnysarah20

I'm a late-20-something going on later-20-something. I don't know what I'm doing even when I do. That's basically adulthood, right?
This entry was posted in healthy habits, procrastination and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to I’m not ready.

  1. Pingback: Shame, friendships, and grace | How do I grow up?

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