When I went to bed last night, I knew the morning wasn't going to be pretty. Before I had finally fallen asleep, my husband had said, "Okay, so if I'm working from home tomorrow, you need to figure out when you are going to go workout." Aggh, I groaned. The alarm went off at 6 a.m., but what woke me was the poke from my husband. "Just drop the kids at school and go right to the gym," he said as he pushed the covers onto the floor.
Fast forward two hours. It's 8 a.m.and I'm sitting in the parking lot of the local Y. I'm angry, really angry...royally pissed off. Pissed at my husband for pushing me out the door to workout. Pissed that I didn't go to bed earlier and as a result am so damn tired. Pissed that I am completely unorganized and had an argument with my pre-teen daughter regarding socks vs. no socks with Uggs because she couldn't find any clean socks to wear. Pissed that my workout clothes are too tight and pissed that I can't afford new ones. That I couldn't set a schedule and stick to it. Pissed that I had let my self go, that I let my weight run unchecked, launching my pantsize into the double-digit stratosphere. Pissed that 99% of women depicted in the media are glossy and flawless and perfect.
I can't be perfect. And I'm pretty damn pissed about that, too.
Yet, everyday I buy into the "perfection trap." I get up and fool myself into thinking that the aphorism "Today is a new day, I will try my best," will somehow work. I turn a blind eye to the thought that "trying my best," is really code for "Bitch..Be perfect." There is no alternative. Cee Lo Green could be the soundtrack of my life:
As I sit in a far corner of the parking lot, covered in flakes of butter croissant and nursing a luke warm latte, it is hard to keep my eyes open. My eyelids are heavy and I long to go to sleep. My mind wanders back to my anger and I vow that I will just go through the motions. Sit here and pass the time, while I let him think he got his way...got me out of the house and into the gym. But the more I thought about it, the stupider my plan seemed. I was the brat, the immature one....having my very own little inner temper tantrum. Throwing excuses around my head with reckless abandon. Looking for every reason why this moment supremely sucked and why it was not my fault. .
As others went about their routine, I sat and sulked. This was something that I envied - something my profound lack of discipline prevented my success....at anything. I was displacing the anger I had at myself and projecting it onto my husband. On the cusp of midlife, I was silently acting more like a spoiled toddler than mother of four. My discontent was with myself....but why? What was I afraid of? Why do I keep holding myself back? Will I ever know the answers to both questions?
I hope so....
But until I figure it out - the best I can do is multi-task: brush the crumbs off my fleece as I move the car closer to the entrance, and hop on a treadmill for 30 minutes with a smart phone to walk and blog....