I rarely talk about my interests here, besides parenting and travel.
Obviously, I enjoy writing, although I enjoy it in the half-ass way that I like baking, knitting, camping, home design, and photography. I do not study them, or take lessons, or strive to improve in any significant way. They simply bring me a burst of joy, like riding a wave to shore simply because it carries you.
It may be my deep-rooted insecurity, but I think I sometimes avoid caring too much or trying too hard. I don’t want to disappoint myself.
It’s an easy thing to put on, this old beloved t-shirt which, if it had a phase on it, would say, “Close enough.”
I think, on one hand, it’s really healthy to not expect too much of yourself. If I didn’t treat myself kindly, and allow myself to make lots of mistakes, I would never have learned as much Spanish as I have. My ability to speak poorly, but often, is a far superior strategy to staying quiet, but not embarrassed. I am willing to care a bit too much, because if I didn’t, I would flounder. And my kids would use their fluent Spanish to plot unspeakable acts.
Now, fitness, on the other hand, has always been an area where I care passionately, and give up too easily. I have done a variety of fitness activities in my life, including swimming, distance running, classes, spin, and so on. And now, after months of feeling a tug, I have stepped into the CrossFit box.
And in that box, I have discovered that I have something called Mobility Issues. Basically, I am as stiff as the tin man, and require lots of stretching and practice and tedious work to make myself more flexible, strong, and capable.
It means that I will be working with a bar or a PVC pipe while others are able to lift weights. I feel supported, and people are there to help me improve. But I am obviously a beginner, and obviously, have much to learn.
But, in order for me to do it, I have to allow myself to care. Openly. I have to take that scary step which means I am committed enough to feel something. To be angry, or disappointed, or devastated, or ecstatic.
It’s so much easier to live with mobility issues. Except that really, I’m not moving at all.
In running culture, you don’t wear a shirt until you run the race. There are lots of shirts for the box I’ve just joined.
And when I squat perfectly, and when I move my body for the first time, I will have earned my shirt.
You’ve read it here. I care enough to admit it. Now hold me to it.