I don't make New Year's Resolutions because once I utter the words, "I resolve," I immediately begin the walk of shame down the long road marked "Disappointment and Inadequate."
I don't give up anything for Lent. I just don't. God and I have a deal. I won't make a promise so that he doesn't have to watch me break it. And, Jesus well knows that I love Him like no other.
I turned 60 years old on March 3rd. SIXTY. Upon completing a detailed self-assessment, the results were as follows: I am a pudgy, lazy, ever tired underachiever. No, seriously. The perfect day for me is a day when Turner Classic Movies presents my all time favorite movies one after the other, a large portion of leftover lasagne sits in the fridge awaiting my hankering, pajamas...that's all...just pajamas, and I can curl up in my unmade bed and play Spider Solitaire on my iPad while watching Jimmy Stewart, Natalie Wood, and Joan Crawford (bless her heart) do what they did best. See? Even that sentence was pudgy, lazy and underachieving, grammatically speaking.
On March 13th at 8:15 AM, I sat in the waiting room of my doctor's office. On the seat beside me sat my book tote. Inside the tote was a gallon baggie. Inside the baggie? All of my prescription bottles. There were too many to discreetly conceal the bulging gallon baggie in my purse. Overthinking the situation, I opted to put the baggie in the tote to make it look like I was a voracious reader instead of a well-medicated senior citizen. Inside the tote nestled next to my baggie was my calendar in which I had tucked a rather surprisingly long list entitled "Things That Hurt." The list included my left knee, my right elbow, and my left thumb.
When the nurse called my name, I carefully gathered up my purse and my "book" tote, then proceeded to walk in an intentionally smooth manner as if I was trying balance to a large candelabra with candles ablaze on my head. My normal bouncy-quick walk might have made my tote sound like it contained several rather large maracas. Shoulders down, chin up, glide first one foot...then, the other. The only thing that could have made me feel more ancient would have been if one of my adult children had accompanied me so that they could help me remember what all the doctor said. "Momma! She's calling your name! Do you have your gallon size baggie of pills with you?! What about your list of stuff that hurts?!" What goes around. Comes around.
First came the scales. I don't even bother taking off my shoes anymore. Their combined weight doesn't make that much difference in the big scheme of things anymore. It's not like I'm oh-so-close to reaching my goal weight or anything. Nope. I'm at the a-couple-of-pounds-more-or-less-don't-make-a-hill-o'-beans-difference weight. Only 2-digit numbers matter now. I shrugged, grimaced, stepped up, and didn't ask questions.
The long and short of it. My ailments were all related to the "maturing process." All of a sudden, I need some sort of "My Body and Me" book because I am so far from puberty that the changes in my body relate more to the END of my portion of the circle of life. Phrases like "that might be the start of arthritis," "sometimes stuff just hurts as you age" "whut thuh," and "you've got to be kidding me" were bandied about.
When I was back in the comfort of my car, I said to myself, "Grrrrrrrl, you dun did it now. You dun let your body down. You gave up on yourself. It ain't over yet. You are stronger than this. You are your worst enemy. Enemies are meant to be conquered.
Conquered? That word struck a cord with me. Conquered. It's not related to a goal that can be measured by subtraction or diminishing pant size. It's not about that. It's about something that I heard a speaker say weeks ago. Three words.
LIVE FULLY ALIVE.
At first, those 3 words convicted me as a person so scattered in my thinking that it feels like I accomplish nothing day in and day out. Then, I realized that the concept was far bigger in the scheme of me. I made it my cause to learn how to live fully alive. In doing so, I realized that I had to CONQUER CAROLYN. And, my friend, she is a worthy opponent with habits that are deeply rooted in her heart. Those roots wrap around her heart and then, wander down to her stomach in search of solace.
On Monday, April 20th, Spring officially began as did my quest to conquer myself. I signed up for Weight Watchers Online for the umpteenth time. I have either walked or done "yoga for seniors" (wait 'til I tell you about that!) for the past 8 days. It is usually between the 10th and 14th days that I "fall off of the wagon" into a big bowl of Bluebell Dutch-not-Milk Chocolate ice cream. You have remained totally unaware of my ditched efforts because I tend to not make public proclamations of my "new me" failures.
Today, I'm proclaiming. It's not about weight. It's really not even primarily about health. It's about living fully alive. I want to feel good in my skin. And, to do so, I must conquer myself.
Don't worry. I'll get back whicha. I've got lots to talk about, for instance, "Yoga for Seniors" in the privacy of my closet. No, you cannot buy a ticket and come watch.
Even when I was thin, I thought I was fat. Pity.