How did I do this when I was younger? How did I get up every morning and exercise like my life depended on it?
Having previously gone over that situation with you, I think it’s safe to say my life did depend on it.
But now? Does my life depend on it now? I lasted a full 29.5 minutes this morning. Weights. Aerobics. Crunches. I hate crunches. And I know I’m doing them wrong because my lower back is killing me now.
Of course it could hurt because I’m older, and I’m doing the same exercises I did when I was young and beautiful and had absolutely no idea that I was young and beautiful.
Why didn’t I enjoy all that more then?
Reminds me of something Nora Ephron said once and I’m going to mess this up so hang in there with me:
“If anyone reading this is 21, go, now, and put on a bikini and don’t take it off until you’re 35.”
We just don’t know what we’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
But I WILL NOT QUIT. @Dolphine is counting on me. My clothes are counting on me. I may be a cripple in a back brace sucking down copious amounts of Tylenol in my sweet Tommy Bahama dresses but dammit, I will wear them again.
If I ever get home.
Looks like June at this point. I can live with that though, as long as it means no jail, no sex registry, and just (just!) five years of supervised probation. Five years is a long time for anyone. And if you’ve got autism and high – and I’m talking HIGH – anxiety like Mr. Happy does, it’s a really long time.
He walks around with lists of things he’s going to do in five years. (Written on that long, legal size yellow paper I never want to see again so, when he comes at me, I’m like, Dear God, not another letter!) Lists full of trips he’s going to take. Jobs he’s going to get. People he’s going to visit. I talk myself blue in the face trying to explain to him that, as long as he’s checked on, as long as he checks in, he doesn’t have to wait five years for any of his plans. He’ll have a few hoops to jump through to, say, fly to Manchester, England, to see his friends and his favorite team, but we’ll jump through them. He’ll get to go, I tell him.
It Does Not Compute. He doesn’t want to hear me and, when I think about it, it makes sense. My son has always preferred the fantasies in his head to the failures of his reality. Sadder still, is that he only sees his reality, his life, himself, as a failure, and I can’t figure out how to help him see it differently. Cancer sucks. But autism and mental illness comes in a close second in this house.
I love my son.
But I still have to get away from him.
And toward that end, I’ve been working on my stash. No, not that kind of stash, although according to Miley Cyrus’ mom weed works wonders when it comes to parenting.
What planet do those people live on?
No, my stash is a pile of stuff. Papers, half-filled notebooks, a folder bursting with tax documents I should scan but haven’t yet because it’s too damn boring. Flash drives. Cards I’ve received during my time in Virginia. Ribbons from presents that are too pretty to throw away. I’m taking all of it home. Home. I started building my beloved pile a week (two weeks?) ago when I returned from Florida. We’d submitted The Plan and it finally felt like Home was on the horizon. Of course, I have to be ready. Anything I don’t need on a daily basis goes into that pile. All those letters! from my son! on that yellow paper! Ack!! They’re in that pile.
Why? I’m not sure.
Maybe Rob and I will burn them one debauched evening, on the beach, and then go skinny dipping to wash their pain from my body and, with any luck, my soul and maybe my memory. (Though that’s a lot of pressure to put on the ocean and a bottle of Pinot noir.)
Maybe we won't. Maybe I’ll keep them forever, take them out and torture myself rereading them from time to time. We do that, don’t we? Hold onto shit we should toss. Even if we hide it, in the back of the closet, a drawer, under the bed, it calls to us. We always know it’s there. And, freaky shit alert, it knows we know it’s there.
Why do we want to relive that pain? Why do I?
I can’t promise, but I think I’m getting rid of those letters. I don’t think they’re making the trip home.
Exercise is important. But maybe tearing those suckers to shreds is what my life – the rest of my life – depends on.
I’ll let you know.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you. If you’d like to read parts 1-35, you can do so here.
Really? After all time lecturing me on getting rid of “stuff”!!?? The people you love aren’t in those letters - read them, appreciate them and bye-bye! (Just your own words biting you in the ass! lol) I love you and the next chance I get I’ll come visit, pour your Pinot and help you with the burn pile 😜