It’s less than a week to my 30th birthday.
I’ve been giving my age as 30 in informal conversations for over a year (you say 29 and everyone assumes you are lying) so there’s no real shock or bump with this one. Also, nearly every change I’ve made in the last five years has been for the better. You could not pay me enough to go back to 25.
But there is a birthday, so I might as well do an annual report card.
gorgeous image by KnotYourWorld
I’ve never liked exercise. As a kid, sports were not my thing, as much because of the team aspect as the athletics required. Running is out of the question (get back to me when they make a sports bra out of woven steel). Biking is great but, unless you’re commuting or spinning, it takes a ton of time to get a real workout. Swimming is lovely, and beautifully solitary, but it’s hard to really focus on your body when you are trying not to run into the other lap swimmers at the park district pool.
Yoga is all the good parts of exercise without the things that make me crazy.
Gratuitous body image discussion after the cut. Enter at your own risk.
Asking for help is hard.
It shouldn’t be. It should be natural to ask someone taller to reach a high shelf or someone stronger to help you move that cabinet. In a perfect world, no one would struggle vainly to open the mayonnaise jar when it’s only a few steps to the sink and hot water.
It seems counter intuitive, but sometimes when I’m feeling truly, abjectly miserable about my body I go shopping.
I love my cat. Phryne is discerning, suspicious, and haughty; everything one wishes for in a cat. As she’s gotten older, she’s become slightly more cuddly, mostly with me. While she has never liked getting picked up, she loves to nap with me, usually curling up on the most tender or sore portion of my body as she claims me for a resting place.
I love her dearly, but this week I have to answer the question, “How much?”
I’m going to take some time today to dwell on my fears and attempt to exorcise them. I feel it’s an appropriate day for that.