I cannot guarantee the clarity of this post, since I’ve been up after midnight four nights in a row, and up early with a toddler who doesn’t care.
Somewhere in the hazy background of my mind, though, is an idea blooming about my willful rejection of rest. And exercise. And many other things that are good – or better – for me than the choices I often end up making.
I have these moments late at night, when my eyes are droopy and my head is bobbing, when I simply refuse to go to bed. BECAUSE I CAN. And moments when I know my body needs healthy fuel, natural ingredients, and I grab the bag of chips instead. BECAUSE I CAN. And moments when my muscles tweak and seem to beg for movement, but I plant myself farther into the couch or desk chair. BECAUSE I CAN.
There is so little I feel I can control in my life; I am at the beck and call of so many others, their needs are paramount. My head is daily filled with this running dialogue: “Now this, then that. Then that. Then that.” and so on.
The choices I make that affect only me become – in a way – the only acceptable time for me to rebel. To put my foot down like an impish child and say, “No!” I know what’s good for me, now watch while I don’t do it. I’m thumbing my nose at…well, someone…and taking control over the situation. Only, it’s not control. It’s not freedom, either. It’s self-sabotage.
Logic dictates that better choices equal a better me. A stronger, more focused me, able to deal better with the unavoidable responsibilities I have towards others.
But a girl’s gotta shake her fist sometime. I’m just trying to figure out how to do it where I don’t end up punching myself in the process.