Gone Baby Gone

WARNING: SOME OF THE FOLLOWING CONTENTS MAY BE SHOCKING AND INAPPROPRIATE FOR SOME READERS.

I’ve been, inattentive. I apologize for being gone for a while, and believe me when I tell you that it’s not been easy for me to have not written here in that time. It’s also not been easy on Sean because I talk about not writing here constantly. But, when one is taking time to figure things out sometimes you just have to cut out all but the basics, except I started to cut out sleep as well, so that also made me a little bit loopy and unfocused which made for another compelling reason why not to write.

Lots of things have been going on, hosting visitors, hosting holiday dinners, planning visits to other places, strange correspondence from family, happy surprises, bra buying, and a higher than usual consumption of cheese. All of it fascinating in their own way but one thing in particular has been standing out.Those who know me know that I’m always preaching about something. If I’m not talking about ditching conventional life then I’m talking about ditching conventionally processed foods.

Apparently, I have a pretty big chip on my shoulder regarding convention. Who knew?For a while, and most notably in the last few years, I’ve been seeing my parents go through the most depressing transformation I could have ever imagined: retired life. To see how your parents act without a job is really telling of their personalities and what I’ve seen from my mother is that she has no idea what to do with life (possibly never has) and it’s kind of freaking me out. There’s a lot of sighing, a lot of boredom, and a lot of “why bother.” Worst of all there isn’t a thing I can do to make her feel better except for giving her as many gift certificates to Red Lobster as I can afford, which is depressing in its own special way.But what I can do is refuse to be someone in their sixties who looks back and says “Hell! I should have done this 30 years ago! If I only had that time now…” Problem is, sometimes it takes a long time to figure out what “it” is and once you do, you have to throw your inhibitions to the wind and take off with it. I’m sure I’ve told you before that Virgos are fond of inhibitions. We like to tuck them in and read them a story at bedtime so change is not always something we’re down with. Oh, in my own way, I’m plenty brave and have made some lifestyle changes that most people only dream of. But, not all that deep down, I’m really chicken shit. And here’s why I’m telling you all this. Although we changed so much about our life, I have known for a long time that there was something missing. Something I couldn’t, for the life, pinpoint. Until two weeks ago.

Being the youngest in my entire family has ingrained in me a need to prove myself on a certain level. I fought for everything in my household and not always in a healthy competition way but in the aggressive hit your sister with a heavy pot resulting in her chasing you around the house with a large chef knife as you run for your life way. Regardless, I have within me a very strong competitive streak and it’s been floundering around, completely untapped for years. Over a strong cup of coffee and a couple of egg sandwiches my friend and I discovered that all this time, I’ve been yearning to punch someone in the face. Why I had never thought of this before, I can’t begin to fathom. Dude, I need to play a sport. In my 30s. As an utter and complete amateur. And out of shape, did I mention out of shape? You don’t want to see me run, trust me, you’ll have the paramedics on the phone faster than you can say “Ready, Set, Go.”

So my friend and I continued to talk about how I should get into boxing because, despite my current lack of hard-body, it seemed obvious that I should be trying to kick the shit out of somebody. You know, in a healthy, controlled, sportsmanlike environment. I can’t even try to convey to you how funny this conversation was. If you were a casual eavesdropper in that café, it probably sounded alarming and that maybe you shouldn’t met up with us in a dark alley. But, GOD, it felt so productive and wonderful to have finally pinpointed exactly what I was missing.

On my drive back home, I planned the whole Rocky-themed event out. That is until I figured out my opponent would probably hit me back, and to top that, they would probably hit me in my face. Which is a problem considering how secretly vain I am. Hmm… this was an issue to weigh heavily. It took me all of 5 minutes to decide that I couldn’t risk it. No matter how awesome the hair, it just can’t make up for black eyes and split lips. Now what? Although I’ve previously toyed with the idea of karate in the past, immediately after dismissing boxing I decided I should join a team sport, so poor karate was quickly eliminated. The reason I figured I should try for a team sport is because I’d be killing two birds with one stone. Getting my competitive need met while actually meeting new people, theoretically, without hurting them. But then a new problem arose. Do you know how hard it is to find sports for out of shape 30-year-olds? Really hard. Especially in a region dominated by seniors. Ok, hard, but not impossible, right? Where to start though? Where else but to pick a sport and then Google it. So, team sport. Out of shape. Amateur. Woman. Hey! Softball! Everyone, ever where has softball league, right? So what if it brings intense flashbacks of when you made your first relocation at the tender age of 9 and your father prearranged for you to be on a team which you never practiced with and then shoved you into right field in middle of a game, at the end of the season, in a sport you never played, in a town where you didn’t know a single soul. That was SO 22 years ago. Besides, a little internet search wouldn’t hurt ya know?

What did I find? Senior softball, for those who are serious about softball and happen to be 70 and older. Ugh. Really? 70 and up? Hmm… ok, we have a lot of ice rinks around here, what about hockey? Hockey season is over. Damn. At this point I was starting to think that black eyes were going to be inevitable. How hard could it be to do computer work with one eye swollen shut anyway? That was until I thought about the other thing we have a lot of out here: water. Where there is water, there are rowers. Rowing! Oh sweet merciful Jesus. What’s that I see? “All are welcome!” My god! They don’t even care that I need to loose, ahem, 5 pounds! Sunlight, water, 8 people on your boat, and the chance to (figuratively) squash an opponent?! It’s perfect!And so for the last two weeks I’ve been fairly obsessed with getting into shape, beginning the 8-week training program, and somehow making it onto a team where I can help to put the other rowers to shame.

There have been some shockingly surprising results from being so driven the last couple of weeks. I know I’m of the vein where “it’s NOT A DIET” but all this commitment to kicking ass has inadvertently lead me to change; and as much as it scares me to say it, chocolate doesn’t taste the same anymore. As in, I almost never eat it anymore. I know. I know. I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I probably should have told you to avert your eyes for a second or noted that only the truly strong should have read that last sentence. But it’s true, and only a little scary. I fully expect this trend to stop any day now and I’ll self-sabotage but for right now, it’s almost… liberating.

In a nutshell, that’s where I’ve been and why I’ve been so distant. I’ve been mildly beside myself for having to put myself in a situation where I’ll have to meet new people, and moreover, interact with them. And be good at that interaction. It’s a bit intimidating for me, especially when I write it in italics, there’s a certain finality to italics that I’m not sure I’m up to yet. Regardless, I’ve set up shop down in my basement doing crunches, pumping iron, and kick boxing my way into looking like less of an out of shape ass than I currently am. Hopefully, I’ll make a team and keep from having to get punched in the head, although with my luck I’ll probably be knocked in my face by an oar.

But hey, if that doesn’t work out, there’s always the Women’s Amateur Soccer League, and if I make that team maybe this time I’ll be able to avoid breaking my own goalie’s nose.