I was chastised just now. A reward for my whining that there’s no time: for the gym or my blog or guesting on someone else’s blog, which sounds great before the ramifications hit me that I need something to say, something dazzling and intellectual to impress an audience other than my own and that I haven’t been able to produce that for my own blog of late. It’s a bit daunting. All these things I say I want to do, that I’ve said for years I want to do, but I don’t. It leaves me feeling raw. I have this grimace on my face when I think about it and a sour taste in my mouth and that sickening feeling inside when inescapable truth arrives. If I lead a dull existence…that must be what I wanted. Action requires effort. Effort requires desire. And without desire…well there you are – there I am, sitting on this horrible lumpy couch, guilting about my tightening slacks and the huge brownie in my hand, wondering as I have since I was 13 or so, while attempting to become my own person in a household where it was discouraged if done outside the accepted lines, wondering why haven’t I done [fill in the blank as appropriate] yet? I’ve come to hate the word ‘why’ almost as much as ‘should’.
Despite that and the rawness which I’m forced to face, it’s a valid question. Truthfully, it’s so much more than a valid question; it’s the only question of my life, possibly everyone’s life. The answers are always excuses, cop-outs, or generalized bullshit to shield myself from the truth, which may be that I’m lazier than I realized. It may also be that I don’t want what I want. Maybe I don’t want to be svelte and healthy nearly as much as I claim – hello, more than 10 years of saying I’m going to diet, gym, sweat, whatever is necessary until I get there and yet here I am, probably 10 lbs heavier than I was 4 months ago and farther still from my long-standing goal. I’ve been saying I wanted to resume piano since I left college, also more than 10 years ago, and yet there’s no piano in this house. My chest aches when I hear those keys; the most appealing and comforting sound to my particular ear and inner whatever-you-call-it, yet I don’t play. And maybe too, it’s a comfort thing. I already know…how to behave or respond or judge in relation to my not-so-happy little rut.
No matter how I look at it, how many ways I turn it, how I try to pretend and sugar-coat my own hypocrisy, the truth is: I have no excuse. I sleep too much. I eat too much. I eat junk when the better option is just as available. I let other people’s needs outweigh my own. I don’t try, and when I do, it’s not hard enough. Where is the zest? Where is the spice? Where is that damnable person who told me I had too many big dreams, that I couldn’t have them all, and that I’d have to chose and just let the rest go, so I can punch him right in the face?
I have no excuse. You don’t either. Go chase your dreams; I’ll be out there with you. I don’t know about you, but I can’t face myself knowing that I had so many opportunities for a novel-worthy, freaking amazing, always-with-a-great-story-to-tell life and did nothing about it. Can you??