An Actor’s Musings

…and the twitter has me all up in arms today.

Mainly, you need to know there is a social networking for geeks site called Geeklist and they got into an argument with a woman on twitter who was upset by a sexist video they had up.

First, I’ll let you catch up here. Go ahead. I’ll wait. (Geeklist has an apology here…..I’ll get to that in a minute)

Got it? Good. Now I have a few words for Geeklist about how women process apologies and how they should have handled this:

1) Apologize directly to the person you offended. For most women an apology means “Ok, now let’s talk about it”. For men this often means “Great, now it’s over”. See where you missed a step here? This apology should take place publicly because the argument was public and people are pissed.

2) Admit precisely what you did wrong publicly. In this case, “I* overreacted and personalized what you were saying. I was wrong to bring up your employer and I was out of line in making the argument about your tone”

3) Validate the grievance: “You had every right to be upset. You had every right to express your anger. Sexism is unacceptable and I’m sorry I tried to sidetrack the conversation. I was wrong.” Not “I made a mistake”. Not “I didn’t mean to upset you”. But “I WAS WRONG”.

4) THEN AND ONLY THEN you make a global apology like the one posted above.

5) THEN AND ONLY THEN you try to make nice to the ladies.

You don’t get to skip 1-3 and jump to 4,5. That’s not contrition and that’s really the word you need to be focusing on right now.

I am all for zero tolerance on sexism. Do the right thing here. Backtrack and catch up.

*not “we” but “I” – individually if necessary. The global apology can be “we” but not the individual apology.

Ugh, that sounds like a stupid motivational seminar.

However….

I booked my next narration gig. It’s been a long time and I thought perhaps they’d forgotten me or didn’t know how to tell me they didn’t want to use me any more. Because here’s the deal – my last recording SUCKED.

There’s no question about it. It was bad. There are reasons it was bad that have to do with actual physical stuff going on but no matter…..it was not good. I would have given myself bad reviews and I thought for sure because of THAT, they would never call to book another narration gig.

But they did and now I have something to prove. To them? Sure, but to ME. I’m a good storyteller so now I just have to prepare and do it. I have plenty of time this time and I’m going to over-prepare (not possible) and have this DOWN before I walk into that recording studio.

I’m actually really excited about the opportunity to make up for that last recording because just…..ughity ugh from Crapville.

I had a conversation about scuba diving with Brad yesterday on our way to dinner. We were doing something we love to do: fantasizing about travel. He has wanted for a long time to get certified and I kept trying to convince myself that I should want that too. That I should get on board, that there’s nothing to be afraid of…..really. It’s all in my head.

I mentioned to Brad that when he does get certified I really want him to be careful and fully informed of things like embolisms. He asked if I understood what they were or how they happen. He explained it to me. I listened. He finished by saying that basically, if you are smart and careful (don’t come up too fast in the water, for instance) this won’t happen.

I had an enormous lightbulb go off at that moment and realized I could really never scuba dive.

In an emergency situation, I am your gal. I can do what is necessary to help someone. I can handle it. I get into this hyper ‘in control’ place and I’ll do what needs to be done. It’s outside of me and it’s interactive. I can handle it.

But…..in my own head, left to my own thoughts about my own health/well-being/fears, I panic and have an enormous amount of anxiety. Scuba diving sounds like you really need to stay in control and force yourself to not panic. This is perfect for Brad. He rarely thinks in terms of fear. It’s just not how his brain functions. For me? Even if surrounded by people under water you’re still ALONE. You can’t talk it out. You can’t get away and work through the feelings. You can’t have someone hold you. It’s just you, listening to your own breathing, trapped in your own thoughts, and I know myself well enough that in that situation my mind would lead me to sheer terror and I would panic, putting my own health at risk.

At that point we both agreed that scuba diving is not for me. Snorkeling? GREAT! Scuba. No.

But there’s more to that than just a realization about one activity. I also realized that my battle is always going to be fear. Maybe ‘battle’ is the wrong word….mostly because I’m tired of feeling like I always have to CHANGE it.

Life taught me early there was plenty to fear. Also, I might have been born a person that is sensitive to those feelings. But whatever happened, it is the instinct now of my lizard brain. It’ll never go away, but it can be managed. But more importantly, I’m finished with attempting to convince myself that sincere fear is somehow a brokenness in me that I should overcome.

(Once again “emotionally perfect” crops up in my life….which only stems from a long held belief that there are feelings that are ‘good’ and some that are ‘bad’.)

So, I am a person that is afraid. I’m afraid of the dark at 3am. I am afraid that the feeling in my leg is going to be a blood clot that will kill me. I am afraid of the very idea of scuba diving. Those exist. They are. I can both experience them and laugh about them later.

But being afraid is not ALL I am. It’s actually just one small part. I am many things and usually in solid control…..but sometimes very afraid.

I have a flicker of a thought needling around in the back of my brain. It involves community and what inevitably happens in any community: are you good enough? Do you meet the standards? Are you a shining example of that community?

But I have questions: who sets the standard?

When I started losing weight the ‘standards’ were easy: as long as you are losing weight, you’re good. But then comes this weird, no-man’s-land once all the fast-paced, exciting, daily changes on the scale are long in the past: did you lose enough? Are you skinny enough? Did you do enough? Did you ‘maximize your weight loss window’? Are you once again a failure at even this?

Sure – I have felt pressure from the weight loss surgery community to be smaller, thinner, eat less bread, don’t eat sugar, but ultimately it’s a choice I make to take that ‘standard’ on.

The thought in my head is that from here on out I set my own standards and they will be based on one thing: my health.

It’s so easy to see someone who isn’t ‘thin’ (but maybe lost 300lbs) and wonder if they ‘did enough’. From now on I only ask one question of myself and of those around me: “Are you healthy? Then who cares what size you are?”

My blood pressure is low, my resting heart rate is that of a marathon runner, my glucose is perfect, my cholesterol is perfect, my triglycerides are perfect. All things that were not ok or on the hairy edge of not being ok before

Big whopping statement coming: If I gained all those health benefits and never lost one single pound, I would be a success at my duodenal switch surgery.

Next time I am feeling ‘fat’ and feeling as big as I was two years ago or hating my ever-present belly or lamenting that the scale hasn’t moved in over a year and probably never will again or that so-and-so obviously must be a better patient than I am because they are smaller than me… I am going to try, with all my might, to remember that I am healthy, my weight is incredibly stable, I enjoy food, I have a great life.

A fantastic life, in fact. A lucky life filled with friends and laughter and an adoring husband and a beautiful home in an amazing city. Being around to enjoy those things longer is way more important than if I’m ever a size 8.

I eat healthily. Very healthily. I choose many things about what I put into my body carefully – I frankly obsess over it a bit (in a really good way, I think). I am incorporating exercise more and more into my life on a regular basis. I am seeing changes in my strength, energy and shape. I am extremely informed about my body, my health, my food choices and sources and what is best for me. Why is it I feel I need to still do more? When I look at it outside myself that is a pretty damn successful body – inside and out.

And when I feel the prickly edges of ugliness start seeping over my shoulder, whispering to me impossible standards I will repeat: I am successful, I am successful, I am successful.

All I can say is ‘I had a day’. I want to say ‘I had a good day’ because by all rights there was nothing wrong with my day: short drive upstate to have lunch with new friends, home to take a nap with my husband, loving kitties, tucked into bed for the night……but my insides keep me from feeling good about my day.

I feel tainted. I feel….self-indulgent in the ugliest of ways.

The people I had lunch with today are a lovely and fantastic group of women. We all share a common bond in having the same internal structure of our guts. That is to say – we all had the same surgery for weight loss. There is a shared bond there. An understanding of what it is like to morph your entire outside in a short period of time, the head games (my brain thinks I look like that, the mirror says I look like this), the amount of food you can or cannot eat, a shared understanding of new and improved bodily functions. It is an odd bond. But it is truly a bond. We get things about our journeys that mere mortals cannot. We have bionic insides. I greatly appreciate these women.

But in a world that focuses on how thin you are (or aren’t), how clear your skin or white your teeth it’s very challenging to make the focus of losing weight about health and not about looks. It’s nearly impossible. Maybe completely impossible. The world remarks on how you look. Constantly. You are good and praised for losing weight (meaning you were bad or wrong for ‘staying’ overweight…..as if it was a choice I made rather than a genetic luck-of-the-draw like being short or curly haired or having a heart murmur).

Don’t get me wrong. The praise is fantastic and as I’ve said before – addictive. When I became ‘normal’ and I wasn’t noticed anymore in public (for either being the really fat girl with the pretty face and sunny disposition to compensate for my ‘faults’ or the exclamations of people I haven’t seen in a while about how much I’ve lost)….there was a slight loss.

Amazingly, things I thought would disappear have not. Just like 100lbs ago, when I look in the mirror some days I think ‘you are not pretty’. But somehow, now it’s twisted. Now I don’t just think ‘you are not pretty’ but, rather ‘you aren’t as pretty as when you were fat…..your face looks haggard’. Ouch. That’s mean. Just mean. And yet – it’s what I think.

And there it is, the old lingering betrayal. I lost weight and I left her behind and she was there for 38 years and I discarded her like an old shoe and traded her in for what? Better model? Well screw you, self. I’ll show you. You’ll NEVER be good enough. How about them apples?

Ouch.

When I was obese I never thought I’d be smaller. Never thought ‘normal weight’ was an option. So I spent my 20s and 30s working tirelessly on becoming emotionally perfect (heads-up: not possible!). I worked on my past and the traumas that lurked there. I worked on my present and being the best relationshipper in the east (and for a little while in the west). I worked on my heart and decided if I believed in a soul. And a god. I worked through hurt and grief. I trudged up hills and fought dragons. No….I decimated dragons. Cutting them up limb by limb and crying for their loss.

Then I had surgery and lost weight.

The focus has been pounds and looks and sagging or not sagging skin (you’re not good enough) and who weights more or less than me and when was their surgery? and do I need plastic surgery (you’ll never be good enough) and will I lose my boobs? and my legs look OK but I carry my weight in my gut (you still look fat) but oh don’t I wish I had an ass and hips because curves would be so fantastic (your face was prettier when you were fat)……

But WAIT!

Who am I? Inside?

And who are you?

That’s part of being obese I want back. Less focus (not ‘no focus’, just less) on how I look, or how you look and more focus on who I am now that I have a healthy body that can accomplish anything….focus on who those lovely ladies are that I ate with today, not what they eat or how they look…..but what they feel and how and who they love.

Yeah. More of that.

Evidently I only post around holidays but I had a memory of today I wanted to get down.

I’ve always loved Valentine’s day. As a kid I loved giving out little heart-shaped cards to kids in class. It was fantastic. You hand someone a card and they SMILE. THEY SMILE. How cool is that? A whole day focused on making people happy. Wow. It was a revelation.

In 5th grade I handed out cards to all my classmates and I made a few extra for friends in other classes. One of my friends was a girl who was deaf. She wore big hearing aids and spoke like Marlee Matlin and was in one of the special classes for slow learners. But she wasn’t a slow learner. She was just deaf and it’s probably all my school had for someone with special needs like her.

In the hallway I handed her the Valentine I had for her. She lit up like a Christmas tree. Like it was the greatest gift she’d ever received. I mean, I was happy to give it to her and didn’t think twice about including her but she seemed genuinely surprised that I’d given her a card.

Later in the school day we saw each other again and she had made me a card. A huge card. HUGE. She drew a beautiful giraffe that covered the entire front of the 2 foot by 1.5 foot card. Why a giraffe? I have no idea, maybe she was good at giraffes. But I felt so overwhelmed.

I also felt something I didn’t understand at the time or have words for. I felt shame. Shame that she was so surprised that a ‘normal’ classmate would like her enough to give a ‘slow’ kid a card. Shame that the collective ‘we’ didn’t treat her better. I still feel that shame that I didn’t give her more. That I couldn’t give her the world. That I couldn’t cover up the stupidity and meanness of everyone else that put her in a place of such low expectations: the expectation of no friend to love you.

But I also feel an enormous amount of gratitude for the lesson she taught me: always give. Always give. Always give. Give your heart and your soul and know it might be hurt but it’s ok, you’ll live and be better. Always, always give.

It brightens everything.

I love this time of year. It’s trite, it’s cliche, it’s childlike and it’s wonderful. (I get to be just as pollyanna as I truly am and no one bats an eyelash). But I get a little stuck on a few things each year. Mainly the idea that as a non-christian I am somehow a fraud or attaching myself to something that I have no right to claim.

I love Christmas. I love the sense of community that suddenly the whole world seems to share. I love the joy and the magic and the wonder and the charity. I really love the wonder. I love the cookies. And fudge. Christmas as a kid wasn’t great, and I don’t remember any of the presents, but I do remember the fudge. And the sense of childlike hope that each year it would be different….it would be better. This year would embody all of the magic I felt. I am thankful that as an adult I now get to create that on my own.

To me the story of Jesus birth is a really fantastic story. I love it. It’s about hope. It’s about hardship and great things coming to those who endure. I always feel moved by the songs that deal with Mary. Can you even imagine? I find it really easy to suspend my disbelief and put myself in her shoes and imagine what she might feel…..so I feel for her and I ache for her.

Oh and the baby…the hope that every child represents. Every baby a possibility. And those animals all hanging out and connecting and watching….my favorite image is one of them singing along. And an angel watching over it all. How beautiful is that? An angel bringing hope and comfort and light. Every newborn baby deserves such an angel.

Really great story. Human story. We all get it. We all struggle with that family. We all have hope that a teeny baby born with nothing can save the world!

And then there’s Jolly Old Saint Nick. So much charity and generosity and magic! Oh the magic! The twinkle and the reindeer and the elves and the giving and the laughter. The giving of gifts just because he can. Sneaking into our houses and we never ever question that he has anything but the best of intentions…..we feel safe and blissfully go to sleep knowing he’s bringing us gifts.

To me, both lovely stories to carry with me and remind me of good things.

I heard my entire life “Jesus is the Reason for the Season”. Now I see that Jesus is SOME peoples’ reason for the season but he’s not actually THE reason. I mean, there’s the pagans and the celebrations they created to joyously bring in the winter season including our current Christmas tree tradition. And then there’s Washington Irving.

The very reason Christmas is such a big deal today and the reason we celebrate it like we do is because of Washington Irving. He wrote a book in the early 1800s that described a dream sequence where St. Nick flew over the trees in a flying wagon…..this later became our current Santa story. He wrote about Old English Christmas traditions that became popularized and adopted in the U.S. and then around the world. No one was celebrating like we do now before that. There were winter festivals and some religious services in churches, to be sure, but Christmas as we know it, did not exist…..I’m really thankful it does, because I love it, but no, this celebration historically does not have Christianity at it’s center. Christians took it on, and that’s fine, but they don’t own it.

I guess that is the part that rubs me the wrong way – that somehow the rest of us are posers and Christians are the only ones with a real ‘right’ to Christmas. But I can believe in hope and love and charity as well as the next person. Jesus might be your reason for the season…..

Mine is peace and hope and magic and a sense of wonder and pretty lights and celebrations and laughter and smiles and playfulness and great stories and beautiful carols that move me to tears or make me dance a totally ridiculous little jig and make my heart feel silly and boxes with bows and generosity and fudge and the belief that once a year every single being deserves to be happy and even the meanest person on the planet has a little love in their heart and can be moved by the hope of a story about a baby or a guy in red that brings presents or the love of a neighbor or the tender smile of a stranger.

A few weeks ago Brad and I happened to be at a mall on our way to a family wedding in Boston. I was on the second floor of the mall waiting for Brad, looking down, watching Santa take pictures with kids. I was mesmerized. This Santa was perfect. Perfect beard, perfect smile, perfect twinkle and all the sweetness one could hope for. One adorably chubby little Latin girl was in line to see Santa. She stood there in the cutest pigtails I’ve ever seen waiting so patiently to talk to Santa. She wasn’t there for a picture, just to let Santa know her wishes, her dreams for the next few weeks.

When her turn came, he held out his hand and she stepped up to him and sat on his lap. He held his face close to hers and caressed her little brown cheek with his stubby finger and he listened. So intently, he listened. She kept talking and you could tell this was really serious business for her, and he continued to nod and take it in. His tenderness was so palpable, I started crying. His validation for this child was so real, so heartfelt. So much love.

And I kid you not, as if he knew, as that little girl got up and walked away from him, he looked up to where I was standing and waved and called out ‘Merry Christmas’. I was mesmerized. I was that little girl. Santa knew me. Magic.

Yeah. That’s where I’m sitting this holiday season…..I hope you’ll join me!

I’ve got stuff on my mind. Yep. Stuff is on my mind.

I went to the workshop/masterclass of a new voice teacher tonight and he is concerned about damage to my chords. I’m not crazy surprised by that. I knew something was wrong and I knew I needed someone who could help me fix it and I knew I needed better habits….most of this I sort of ‘felt’. I had a sense and while it was a very intense (in a concentration type way) 4 hours with a lot of information, I walked away a little relieved. Emotional, but relieved.

I feel a little broken. Not emotionally crushed or pathetic or any connotation the word ‘broken’ normally has but rather ‘a thing that needs fixin’ (if I may conjure up my southern roots for a moment). And I can fix it. I can take control.

I guess that is what it comes down to: control. I have these….pieces…of my life.

My doctor confirmed that my cervical spine has a permanent reverse curve that I need to fix. I will be going to a specialized form of deep tissue massage and possibly acupuncture to help correct it. Trying to fix it on my own and stand up straight really hurts and doing my own corrective exercises is very painful in a way that is neither sustainable nor terribly helpful to the problem. The tissue is convinced this is how my body is shaped. It’s going to take a lot of convincing and probably feeling uncomfortable to convince it otherwise. This posture issue is leftover from 38 years of slouching – to hide.

My muscles have atrophied from a very quick weight loss. If I want to avoid osteopenia and eventually osteoporosis I need to spend intense time rebuilding my body.

And now my voice. It’s quite possible this is damage from years of reflux – reflux that from the age of 8 would sometimes wake me in the middle of the night, feeling as if I was drowning in my own stomach acid, gasping for air, coughing – this would cause tremendous panic attacks, convinced I was dying. I’ll be seeing a doctor to assess the damage and how permanent but there is a chance I’ll never have exactly the voice I wish I could, no matter how hard I’m willing to work.

But while it feels emotional, it also feels like something I’ve been experiencing for a while: a desire to really take control of every part of my body. My. Body….Mine. Not an abuser. Not society’s. Not obesity’s. Not my mother’s. Not something no one could truly love.

I’ve spent the better part of the last 20 years working on me emotionally – delving and exploring and getting to places, frankly, a lot of people never look at. I’ve worked hard on who I am inside. I’ve worked hard on self-awareness and becoming someone I always envisioned myself to be. I’m comfortable with who I am. The journey never ends and there is much more to learn, but I feel confident in my ability to get there.

This is not the case with my body. Surgery was the first step. A huge step, but I have to keep reminding myself it was just the beginning. I’ve never really owned my body. I’ve never felt safe in it. I’ve never felt it was mine.

I got home tonight and wanted comfort. Desperately. Food comfort. I used to feel bad if this happened but now I know skinny people comfort eat too on occasion. So I allowed myself too many cookies and a glass of milk and ya know what? I instantly felt like I was as heavy as I’d ever been. And the feeling of heaviness and too full and achey tummy felt oddly comforting. I’m not sure anyone that hasn’t been obese most of their lives can understand that but yeah, while it felt wrong…..it was also familiar. And sometimes with the familiar comes a very peculiar sense of comfort, no matter how backhanded that comfort might be.

So I let that be for a minute. I let that sink in. I allow myself to live with that and feel that sense of 100-pounds-ago.

It’s ok. I know it’s a feeling not a fact. I know that I have pieces of broken me to pick up – detritus and repercussions from 38 years of obesity to start putting together. I know I have strengths to claim. I know I will allow myself to fully be in my own body: voice, flesh, bones, standing tall, feeling strong.

I am broken: but in a good way. In a way I need. In a purely physical way. The insides don’t feel broken at all and they are what hold me together.

When I was eight, I hated taking the bus to school. Hated it. I would make up stomach aches and colds and try to stay home from school as often as possible….and all because of one kid – Roy Vanderbelt. He lived across the street and we were the same age. He was a ‘cool’ kid. His dad was a cop, mom was a cop, older brother was a cop. This left Roy feeling in control.

He’d flex these young muscles by throwing rocks at me, orchestrating fights between me and other kids, forcing me to sit on the boys side on the bus and taunting me the entire time (when you’re eight, this is mortifying). The other kids at the stop did whatever Roy wanted. I don’t blame them. They’d all known him their entire lives and were probably just glad I moved in so he had someone else to torture…..and in walks the fat girl! Perfect target.

I remember vividly he once convinced this one little boy that he needed to ‘kick my butt’ after school. The entire bus ride home this boy kept taunting me, telling me how he was going to kick my butt. I was scared. I was an easy to cry, easy to laugh, talkative, please-just-love-me little girl who’d been overweight her entire life. I had no idea how to fight or how to defend myself or even how to stand up for myself. I just really really wanted people to like me and be my friend and play with me.

We got off the bus and this little boy came after me. I was bigger than him. Roy saw pretty quickly I was going to win so he gleefully kept egging me on – telling me to kick him or punch him or scratch him. I did what I had to do. Then I ran home and told my mom.

She didn’t respond except to ask me if I felt good about what I’d done. I burst into tears. It was my fault wasn’t it? She didn’t understand the dynamics: the threats, the rocks, the torture. She didn’t get it. But she was right…right? I hurt that kid and that wasn’t ok either? I sobbed because I hurt someone but I also sobbed out of relief for not being hurt and out of sheer conflict. I had no idea what was right. My mom decided I should pray for forgiveness. Jesus said to turn the other cheek, didn’t he? What I’d done was wrong. I guess I was supposed to just let him beat me up….that’s what Jesus would have done.

Junior high wasn’t much better. I was still fat and my mom still made me wear red polyester pants from Sears. I found a small group of friends who loved me but the taunting and teasing continued outside of my group of friends. There were a few milkshakes thrown on me in the lunchroom. A few threats. But I just put my head down and took it.

In high school I found a home in the music dept. I found love and acceptance because I could sing. I found theater and a way to be accepted on stage. People thought I was funny.

But in German class there was still a girl who enjoyed torturing me. She was ‘cool’ and a party girl and probably had sex and had boyfriends and dressed in vogue and I did not. I was fat. She loved this. She called herself my friend and thought I would laugh too at the names she called me. One stuck with me …..still does. Suction Butt. Because I was so fat that when I sat on the toilet it would create a suction. She and others would make a sucking noise when I came to class.

I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever felt such shame. I left class one time crying. My German teacher followed me wanting to know what happened. How could I tell her? I just said they were making fun of me and I am sure nothing was ever said or done about it. I felt small and belittled and totally, completely sure that I deserved absolutely nothing in this world because I was fat. A fat, worthless, ugly blob that no one would or could ever love.

It’s such a big topic right now – Bullying. And it’s complex. When I look back on that, I oddly don’t blame the adults in my life because they didn’t know. I couldn’t tell them. To admit it, to narc? God, the worst of the worst in kid codes. And there is a code. For sure. A total code of silence. And you know if you tell the torture will be worse the next time adults aren’t around…..and they can’t always be around.

And as bad as that was for me, as much as it still hurts me to go back there – my husband’s bullies were worse. That’s his story to tell, but he endured some of the most horrendous bullying I’ve ever heard described. I am surprised he survived.

The LGBTQ community is talking a lot about ‘gay bullying’ right now and for those of us who support and love our gay brothers and sisters….we who fight and speak up and say ‘this isn’t ok how you are treating our friends’…..we just wish that community could open it’s arms a little wider and not make the subject ‘gay bullying’ but ‘bullying’.

Fat kids and smart kids and different kids don’t have a community of adults with a PR team to turn to and say ‘help us’. This is a society issue….not a gay issue. For every gay teen that has committed suicide in the past few months over being bullied I can guarantee you there are at least that many obese or short or super smart or different kids that have taken their own lives. They just aren’t getting press. NO kids should be bullied.

There are issues that are specific to the LGBTQ community and I speak loudly and vote accordingly for those. This one is not – this is about all of us. So yes, use your community but please – don’t forget little girls getting rocks thrown at them because they are fat. They need someone to fight for them too.

I’ve always had trouble getting myself to exercise. It’s a struggle. Even doing things I love doing. I do love running. I struggle to do it. I love dancing. I struggle to do it. I enjoy weight lifting sometimes. Etc. etc.

Before surgery it was a struggle because the thought was ‘I cannot lose weight unless I exercise’. So I’d exercise and never lose more than 10lbs. Running for five months, I didn’t lose anything at all. Totally demotivating.

Since surgery, I don’t have to exercise to lose weight. Not much incentive there either.

I’ll do something for a while. A few months. A year. I mean, ok. Who’s story ISN’T this? This is the story of most of us, right? The only time I exercised regularly for a year was when I was in acting school and was forced to take dance classes as part of my curriculum: tap, jazz, ballet. I was in a class four days a week. I loved it – but it was required.

I mean, yes I know people who live to exercise and are motivated and love it and I put them on a pedestal and think ‘oh my god, they are so much better than I am’ but I’m coming to believe they are the freaks since most of us don’t feel that way. I’m not sure that’s normal. I mean, good for them! I wish! But no. Not me. And I can’t be them.

That said – WHY? I mean, I walked with my MIL yesterday for about an hour and it was great. Felt a little tight and sore afterward but thought ‘yeah, good stuff’. I ran/walked for about an hour today then did a bit of stretching on Wii. Again. Good stuff. Feel good. A bit sore but good.

So what the HELL is the disconnect.

I actually want to be in shape. I’m not a lazy person. I want to be athletic. I still want to run a marathon. But what the fuck chuck? Why is it so difficult to move that stone when I know I enjoy moving the stone?

The only thing I can come up with is that when we were cave people all of our exercise was the work to survive. Without the daily work to survive we would die/be killed. When we had time, we rested because we needed the energy to work to survive.

Now I imagine my old lizard brain thinks ‘why would you go do that when you don’t have to? Rest. You might need to kill a wildebeest later or fend off marauders or build shelter’.

The question then becomes, how to I trick my brain into thinking without this, I will die. I mean, yes yes, in the abstract I need it for health and that could kill me without it. But that isn’t imminent.

Perhaps I should have someone chase me with a knife while I run? Or take all of my bacon and I have to chase them to get it back?

Hmmmm.