I recently received a forwarded e-mail containing a "poem" attributed to Maya Angelou called 30 Things Every Woman Should Know by 30. I usually delete that forwarded clap-trap immediately, but as the momentous birthday approaches, I decided to see what it had to say. As I read, I became suspicious that this was not in fact the wisdom of Ms. Angelou. Some light Googling revealed that it was actually an article by Pamela Redmond Satran and first published in Glamour magazine. The actual article 30 Things Every Woman Should Have and Know by the Time She's 30 is worth the two minute it takes to read. Some of the items seemed a little cliche or sexist even, but it made me think about what advice I'd give on the subject...
By 30 you (or I...) should be able to:
1. Change your own tire, set up your own home wireless network, do your own taxes, and put together your Ikea entertainment center without having to call a brother, father, or boyfriend.
2. Dine, travel, or see a movie alone without feeling self-conscious.
3. Coherently articulate your position on the political/social/religious issues that are important to you without simply regurgitating what influential people in your life believe.
4. Cook at least one signature dish extremely well and contribute it to family gatherings.
5. Get what you want from a customer service rep without crying or having your mother call for you.
By 30 you (...I) should have:
1. Relationships with people (family, friends, significant others) that you know you can count on.
2. Clothes that are age- and body-appropriate...remember, great style evolves.
3. A 401k, savings account, and checking account that you contribute to more regularly than you withdraw.
4. An new outlet for that creativity, athleticism, or whatever that you haven't had since high school or college.
5. A tentative plan for the future...When someone asks you where you see yourself in 10 years, have an answer, even if that answer changes over time.
By 30 you (...I) should know:
1. The past, good or bad, doesn't define you now. It's what you're doing right now that matters, so don't live in the past.
2. What you're looking for in a job and a relationship so you'll know a good thing when you see it.
3. How to say no gracefully.
4. How to be alone and be completely entertained by your own company.
5. When to trust your gut instincts...which, by the way, is almost always.
By 30 you (definitely I) should try:
1. Living alone.
2. That food you refused to touch when you were a kid.
3. Exercising twice as much as you did before your metabolism turned on you.
4. Reading more books...maybe even some nonfiction ones
5. To make "you" time regardless of how crazy your day is...if you can't give yourself at least 30 uninterrupted minutes a day, who will?
That's just my .02. I'll be honest--I'm more excited than apprehensive about turning 30. Maybe it's true that life begins at 30...
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Numbers
Like any good math-phobe, I'm not a fan of keeping track of the numbers.
- I'd rather just celebrate all birthdays in grand style and forget the number associated with it...especially this year.
- I don't have any idea how many guys I've dated, made out with, etc.
- I'm not the type to be able to report exactly how many calories I've consumed down to the 7 sour Skittles after lunch...that's no way to live.
- I have only the vaguest idea how many miles I ran yesterday.
- I have no idea how many hours a week I spend online or watching bad television...let's just say it's probably a lot.
- I haven't balanced my checkbook...well...EVER.
- I'm not even entirely sure how many pairs of shoes I own...also a lot.
But the biggest, baddest numbers in my life, I can't seem to shake. This past week, I've started packing my apartment, and the first order of business was to rid my closet of all the things I don't wear (ie, don't fit). I tried on pair after pair of pants--just to make sure. Sure enough, they were all still too snug. Damn.
That was hard enough. Then while I was cleaning out drawers and bookshelves, I ran across pictures from high school and college, where I was all rail-thin arms and legs. Even B. said, "Wow, you were so thin...and your boobs were so tiny." He meant this in a good way, as in "I like you better now." But, I still couldn't help wishing I could turn back the clock, if only to slip my ass into a size 4 again.
The thing is, I love my life so much more now than I ever did then. I wouldn't go back to high school or college even if I could. Even then, I worried about the numbers on the scale and my clothing tags and pinched little (possibly non-existent) rolls of fat and moaned about not being thin enough.
People always say it's not about the number on the scale but how you feel and look. I don't feel good about the way I look, and I haven't in awhile. Viewing myself as thin had been a part of my self-perception for a long time, and now that I look in the mirror and don't see that, some of my innate confidence has disappeared. I desperately want it back.
But don't know if my insecurity really entirely about how I look, or that elusive number I want to see when I try on a pair of jeans at the GAP.
I've made a deal with myself: Run a total of 50 miles by July 1, and I will treat myself to the pair of custom New Balance running shoes I've always wanted. You better believe I'm counting...
Monday, June 4, 2007
A whole lot of something
Sometimes a whole week goes by and I have nothing to say for myself. I'd like to write to you about this book I'm reading that Shelley gave me and wax all philosphical about what it means to my way of thinking. I'd like to talk about how much I miss doing research and writing and trying to get published or present at conferences. I even thought about making a list of the top 10 things I want to do this summer. But, the truth is, I can't even think of ten novel things to write. Instead, how about a quick weekend update?
Saturday night I discovered rockabilly music. Saw the Trip Daddys at the Pageant. I loved the retro feeling of the country meets punk sound. The neuvo-retro outfits were even better! I loved how some of the songs made me want to swing dance. It was quite an experience. May have found a new musical niche for myself.
Sunday morning I (re)discovered hangovers. I re-experienced how one can last all the way until 8:00 the next evening. It wasn't pleasant. I missed my day at the pool. There wasn't enough Powerade in the world. Arby's curly fries and a four hour nap, however, helped a great deal. Lesson learned: Vodka is not my friend.
And somewhere between those two time periods, in the middle of the crowded Halo bar, someone said three words to me that I'll never forget. I can't stop repeating the scene in my head like a movie clip. A few months ago I wrote a blog in which I said I'd yet to meet anyone who made my heart pound or my knees weak the way I felt when I was 23. Well, things change. It felt that good and then some. To be honest, it blew 23 right out of the water.
But that's all I've got for now. I'll work on concocting some mind blowing idea for later in the week...
Saturday night I discovered rockabilly music. Saw the Trip Daddys at the Pageant. I loved the retro feeling of the country meets punk sound. The neuvo-retro outfits were even better! I loved how some of the songs made me want to swing dance. It was quite an experience. May have found a new musical niche for myself.
Sunday morning I (re)discovered hangovers. I re-experienced how one can last all the way until 8:00 the next evening. It wasn't pleasant. I missed my day at the pool. There wasn't enough Powerade in the world. Arby's curly fries and a four hour nap, however, helped a great deal. Lesson learned: Vodka is not my friend.
And somewhere between those two time periods, in the middle of the crowded Halo bar, someone said three words to me that I'll never forget. I can't stop repeating the scene in my head like a movie clip. A few months ago I wrote a blog in which I said I'd yet to meet anyone who made my heart pound or my knees weak the way I felt when I was 23. Well, things change. It felt that good and then some. To be honest, it blew 23 right out of the water.
But that's all I've got for now. I'll work on concocting some mind blowing idea for later in the week...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Following the Crowd
First things first--Happy St. Patrick's Day. Those of you who know me know that this is my most favorite holiday in the world (primarily due to the lack of family obligation attatched, secondarily the volume of drinking one gets to do... and oh yeah the being Irish). So, I hope you enjoy yours as much as I'v enjoyed mine thus far.
In celebration of my holiday and as a kind of motivation to work out, back in January I signed up to run the 5 mile St. Patrick's Day race in downtown St. Louis. I can't really think of anything less Irish...I can find no evidence that St. Patrick or anyone else was doing much running around the Emerald Isle. But what could be better than getting some exercise and burning a few calories before the festivities begin? I'm always one to try to take others down with me, so I convinced a friend to join me. And away we went.
The training didn't go so well. I printed off a training guide from the internet telling me how many miles to run on which days in the six weeks leading up to the race. But in the midwest, it's been bloody cold for the past couple of months, and after a few miles, there's something about a treadmill that makes me feel very much like a lab rat. Only I think good little lab rats get treats for their labors (there's an idea that could revolutionize gym-going, but that's another blog).
Race morning arrived, and I drug myself out of bed at 6:30 am, which to my knowledge has NEVER happened on a Saturday before (nor probably will since). It was painfully cold outside, and for a moment I considered going back upstairs and pretending that my alarm had never gone off. I could blame the cat for unplugging it. But I didn't. I headed downtown where there were HOARDS of people waiting to do this thing.
I safety-pinned my number to my electric blue fleece and danced around half in anticipation, and half because in the cold I could no longer feel my thighs. When the shot went off, it took a good two minutes before we could even start running because of the huge crowd. I nodded good luck to my friend, who runs MUCH faster and better than I do, strapped on my Nano and joined the fray.
There were hills that seemed like they'd never crest. There were unexpected potholes and runners who would rather run into you than around you. There were moments when I considered cutting out of line, walking over to the finish line a couple of blocks away and ordering a beer while I waited for my friends.
But the adrenaline of the crowd was contagious. At any given time, looking out in front and behind, there were thousands of heads (9,000 to be exact) bobbing up and down around me. I liked that I was solidly in the middle of the pack...I had nightmares about being the very last person to cross the finish line. There were people along the route, waiting for the parade, who cheered us on, and one little boy even ran out to give some of us high-fives. An old friend decked out in his kilt shouted out encouragment that there would be a drink in it for me at the end. There was a group of people around the four mile mark sitting in lawnchairs with signs that read "I finished already" and "I see slow people." Slow, my ass, I thought as I stepped it up a notch. Starting out, I told myself that it would be okay if I had to walk a couple of miles of it, seeing as I had never run more than three miles in preparation. But something kept one running shoe falling in front of the other. Somehow I just kept going, as if the crowd was pulling me along with them.
The race coordinators had politely stationed the finish line at the bottom of a small incline, and when I saw the banner a little ways off, I broke into a what I like to imagine was a true sprint. My finishing time was 61 minutes and 12 seconds. Not as fast as I would have liked, but not bad for a road race virgin.
Even though my right knee was swelling, screaming for ice, even though tomorrow I may not be able to get out of bed, I felt a little bit invincible just then. I ran twice as far as I thought I could, in a better time than I had imagined (the parade was NOT waiting on me so it could start). In short, I want to do that again! Not today or in the next week, but soon. There's a 5K before the St. Louis Marathon, if anyone is interested in joining me. My ultimate goal would be a 10K...Beyond that, I think I'll leave the half and full marathons to my girl J!
In celebration of my holiday and as a kind of motivation to work out, back in January I signed up to run the 5 mile St. Patrick's Day race in downtown St. Louis. I can't really think of anything less Irish...I can find no evidence that St. Patrick or anyone else was doing much running around the Emerald Isle. But what could be better than getting some exercise and burning a few calories before the festivities begin? I'm always one to try to take others down with me, so I convinced a friend to join me. And away we went.
The training didn't go so well. I printed off a training guide from the internet telling me how many miles to run on which days in the six weeks leading up to the race. But in the midwest, it's been bloody cold for the past couple of months, and after a few miles, there's something about a treadmill that makes me feel very much like a lab rat. Only I think good little lab rats get treats for their labors (there's an idea that could revolutionize gym-going, but that's another blog).
Race morning arrived, and I drug myself out of bed at 6:30 am, which to my knowledge has NEVER happened on a Saturday before (nor probably will since). It was painfully cold outside, and for a moment I considered going back upstairs and pretending that my alarm had never gone off. I could blame the cat for unplugging it. But I didn't. I headed downtown where there were HOARDS of people waiting to do this thing.
I safety-pinned my number to my electric blue fleece and danced around half in anticipation, and half because in the cold I could no longer feel my thighs. When the shot went off, it took a good two minutes before we could even start running because of the huge crowd. I nodded good luck to my friend, who runs MUCH faster and better than I do, strapped on my Nano and joined the fray.
There were hills that seemed like they'd never crest. There were unexpected potholes and runners who would rather run into you than around you. There were moments when I considered cutting out of line, walking over to the finish line a couple of blocks away and ordering a beer while I waited for my friends.
But the adrenaline of the crowd was contagious. At any given time, looking out in front and behind, there were thousands of heads (9,000 to be exact) bobbing up and down around me. I liked that I was solidly in the middle of the pack...I had nightmares about being the very last person to cross the finish line. There were people along the route, waiting for the parade, who cheered us on, and one little boy even ran out to give some of us high-fives. An old friend decked out in his kilt shouted out encouragment that there would be a drink in it for me at the end. There was a group of people around the four mile mark sitting in lawnchairs with signs that read "I finished already" and "I see slow people." Slow, my ass, I thought as I stepped it up a notch. Starting out, I told myself that it would be okay if I had to walk a couple of miles of it, seeing as I had never run more than three miles in preparation. But something kept one running shoe falling in front of the other. Somehow I just kept going, as if the crowd was pulling me along with them.
The race coordinators had politely stationed the finish line at the bottom of a small incline, and when I saw the banner a little ways off, I broke into a what I like to imagine was a true sprint. My finishing time was 61 minutes and 12 seconds. Not as fast as I would have liked, but not bad for a road race virgin.
Even though my right knee was swelling, screaming for ice, even though tomorrow I may not be able to get out of bed, I felt a little bit invincible just then. I ran twice as far as I thought I could, in a better time than I had imagined (the parade was NOT waiting on me so it could start). In short, I want to do that again! Not today or in the next week, but soon. There's a 5K before the St. Louis Marathon, if anyone is interested in joining me. My ultimate goal would be a 10K...Beyond that, I think I'll leave the half and full marathons to my girl J!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Predictable???
Yesterday someone called me an iconoclast.
Ordinarily, I would take this as a compliment. That was not, however, how it was meant. Here's how the conversation began:
"You carry a purse?"
"Um, yeah...why wouldn't I?"
"That just doesn't fit my perception of you. You seem like too much of an iconoclast to carry a purse."
Well, obviously we are dealing with someone who doesn't really understand the meaning of big words or work with a fully functional thought process. Surely even Joan of Arc, Mary Shelley, and the like all carried purses (or some other time period appropriate clutch). But I couldn't resist probing this a bit further, if only to mock this person mercilessly for his poor logic.
"And what are these perceptions that have led you to believe I am an iconoclast?"
"Well, I've just heard you talking."
"About?"
"No concrete examples are coming to mind...I've heard you talk about politics and religion. You also seem like a feminist." (This also said like a dirty word).
"I'm liberal if that's what you mean."
"Not just that. Then I heard you mention liking the Flaming Lips, and you dress a certain way, so I added that to my little mental version of you."
"I'm not sure there's just one type of person who likes the Flaming Lips...wait, dress what way??"
"Plus you are a vegetarian and have tattoos" (more nasty words).
"So what you're saying is you work in stereotypes?"
"I just figured you'd be too unconventional to carry a purse. You don't do anything else normal people do."
Normal people? Here I rolled my eyes for about the tenth time of the conversation. It wasn't that these labels are not parts of my personality; they are. But there is an ample number of other parts, ones that carry purses apparently. I don't want to be different simply for the sake of being different. I just want to fully explore all the divergent parts of who I am. I don't like being boiled down to my lowest common denominator. But, do not ask me to elaborate on that metaphor, as my knowledge of math ends there.
I won't even pretend to be free of the desire to box people up. I had put this person in a box long ago; I just had the courtesy not to tell him about it. I have the dubious pleasure of working at the ESL center with this particular tutor, who volunteers there because he has a thing for Hispanic women and is usually trolling for numbers. I, therefore, stereotyped him icky. He also wears shiny black slip-on loafers with jeans and sports jackets. I stereotyped him a hipster douchebag. He throws out ridiculous opinions like, "I think instead of executing Saddam Hussein, we should reinstate him. He'd have shit back under control in a week." Stereotype: moron. He asked if we'd seen his cd case. We had...some Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits going on. Here a convenient stereotype alludes me, but I visibly cringed.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don't care what most people think of me. So this guy is way off base. Whatever. When I got thinking about it, I decided I was pissed because he was using these stereotypes in a derrogatory way. How dare you say feminist like it's something bad?! But all stereotypes at their core are to make the people doing the typing feel superior. I just used terms like hipster and moron because I imagine my style and intellect to be vastly superior to his. And vice versa obviously.
We all do it. Think about how much thought (or conscious lack thereof) you've put into your profile blurbs and pictures. You want to be perceived in a certain way and may have gone out of your way not to be perceived in other ways. Maybe that's my problem. I want to be perceived as someone who doesn't fit into neat little boxes. The beauty of personality is the facet and gradations. Classic literature and Cosmo on the same bookshelf. A business suit hanging in the closet next to worn out denim. Stilettos and running shoes. Cupcakes and carrot sticks. Theater and reality television. Sweet and tough. Sarcasm and compassion. The introverted extrovert. I don't like people assuming that just because I am one way I can't also be another.
But it's impossible to be all things to all people. Nobody sets out to be misunderstood, but it can't help but happen. The people who are important, the people who really know me get to see me in my entirety (lucky, lucky them ). And that's all that matters, I guess. The others, the people on the outside, will always see me (you, us) the way they want to, usually the way that makes them most comfortable with their view of themselves.
Maybe the very fact that I don't want to be what people think I am does make me an iconoclast. No italics.
02/06/07
Ordinarily, I would take this as a compliment. That was not, however, how it was meant. Here's how the conversation began:
"You carry a purse?"
"Um, yeah...why wouldn't I?"
"That just doesn't fit my perception of you. You seem like too much of an iconoclast to carry a purse."
Well, obviously we are dealing with someone who doesn't really understand the meaning of big words or work with a fully functional thought process. Surely even Joan of Arc, Mary Shelley, and the like all carried purses (or some other time period appropriate clutch). But I couldn't resist probing this a bit further, if only to mock this person mercilessly for his poor logic.
"And what are these perceptions that have led you to believe I am an iconoclast?"
"Well, I've just heard you talking."
"About?"
"No concrete examples are coming to mind...I've heard you talk about politics and religion. You also seem like a feminist." (This also said like a dirty word).
"I'm liberal if that's what you mean."
"Not just that. Then I heard you mention liking the Flaming Lips, and you dress a certain way, so I added that to my little mental version of you."
"I'm not sure there's just one type of person who likes the Flaming Lips...wait, dress what way??"
"Plus you are a vegetarian and have tattoos" (more nasty words).
"So what you're saying is you work in stereotypes?"
"I just figured you'd be too unconventional to carry a purse. You don't do anything else normal people do."
Normal people? Here I rolled my eyes for about the tenth time of the conversation. It wasn't that these labels are not parts of my personality; they are. But there is an ample number of other parts, ones that carry purses apparently. I don't want to be different simply for the sake of being different. I just want to fully explore all the divergent parts of who I am. I don't like being boiled down to my lowest common denominator. But, do not ask me to elaborate on that metaphor, as my knowledge of math ends there.
I won't even pretend to be free of the desire to box people up. I had put this person in a box long ago; I just had the courtesy not to tell him about it. I have the dubious pleasure of working at the ESL center with this particular tutor, who volunteers there because he has a thing for Hispanic women and is usually trolling for numbers. I, therefore, stereotyped him icky. He also wears shiny black slip-on loafers with jeans and sports jackets. I stereotyped him a hipster douchebag. He throws out ridiculous opinions like, "I think instead of executing Saddam Hussein, we should reinstate him. He'd have shit back under control in a week." Stereotype: moron. He asked if we'd seen his cd case. We had...some Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits going on. Here a convenient stereotype alludes me, but I visibly cringed.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don't care what most people think of me. So this guy is way off base. Whatever. When I got thinking about it, I decided I was pissed because he was using these stereotypes in a derrogatory way. How dare you say feminist like it's something bad?! But all stereotypes at their core are to make the people doing the typing feel superior. I just used terms like hipster and moron because I imagine my style and intellect to be vastly superior to his. And vice versa obviously.
We all do it. Think about how much thought (or conscious lack thereof) you've put into your profile blurbs and pictures. You want to be perceived in a certain way and may have gone out of your way not to be perceived in other ways. Maybe that's my problem. I want to be perceived as someone who doesn't fit into neat little boxes. The beauty of personality is the facet and gradations. Classic literature and Cosmo on the same bookshelf. A business suit hanging in the closet next to worn out denim. Stilettos and running shoes. Cupcakes and carrot sticks. Theater and reality television. Sweet and tough. Sarcasm and compassion. The introverted extrovert. I don't like people assuming that just because I am one way I can't also be another.
But it's impossible to be all things to all people. Nobody sets out to be misunderstood, but it can't help but happen. The people who are important, the people who really know me get to see me in my entirety (lucky, lucky them ). And that's all that matters, I guess. The others, the people on the outside, will always see me (you, us) the way they want to, usually the way that makes them most comfortable with their view of themselves.
Maybe the very fact that I don't want to be what people think I am does make me an iconoclast. No italics.
02/06/07
More than you think you are
I had a new thought the other day. New thoughts are sometimes few and far between, so I thought I'd share.
I had gone to the gym in the interest of keeping my new lifestyle goal (not a new year's resolution) to be healthier via amping up my cardio per week and losing some poundage. After I'd finished, I was looking around for a place to stretch out when I noticed that a yoga class was starting. I'd been to a couple of Bally's yoga classes before, so I thought this would be the perfect way to stretch out and relax at the end of a very long day.
It was a small late evening class with only about 5 other people participating. The very sneaky teacher had turned down the lights and put on some soft yoga music in the background. Even having to use one of the community yoga mats (ewww, germs) wasn't going to get me down. I was ready to chill. Not so much chilling...Before I knew it I was ten chaturangas (a push up with your elbows pointing straight back) into a power yoga class. Normally no big deal, but after an hour of running/eliptical training, too much! I found myself in downard facing dog (the resting part of the sun salutation sequence) with my arms visibly trembling, exerting everything I had left in me to keep from face planting into the mat.
In this exhaustion, I realized that I felt oh so alive. Somehow, feeling my body's frailty made the act it was doing more amazing. I'd felt similar thrills that combined both my physical limits and my ability to reach beyond them during other athletic moments: at the top of a climbing wall, shaking partly with fatigue, partly with adrenaline; at the end of a run where I went farther than I ever thought my unwilling legs could carry me; or back in college after three-a-day preseason practices, the feeling that I couldn't perform for one more minute but surprising myself by playing even harder.
Later, I wondered about the idea of finding our strength in weakness and what other areas of life this could apply to. I find it much harder to take risks emotionally than I do physically. Emotional risks, like telling someone how you really feel about them, confronting someone close to you, letting new people into your life, starting an ambitious program/project, applying for a job or promotion you don't think you can get, are the equivalent of working without a net. In physical activities, there are options if the weakness becomes too much. I could do child's pose, there is a trusted person holding the ropes, I could call a time out. But in real life, sometimes we have to make the leap without knowing for sure if we can make it to the other side. Some of us are lucky enough to have emotional safety nets in people who have our back no matter what and will scrape us off the pavement if we misjudge the jump. However, in the end, we have to be the ones to take the chance. We can calculate all we want, but it comes down to believing that despite how inadequate we might feel, there are depths of strength in us that we don't even know we have.
Here's to a year of taking more chances on others and on myself.
01/08/07
I had gone to the gym in the interest of keeping my new lifestyle goal (not a new year's resolution) to be healthier via amping up my cardio per week and losing some poundage. After I'd finished, I was looking around for a place to stretch out when I noticed that a yoga class was starting. I'd been to a couple of Bally's yoga classes before, so I thought this would be the perfect way to stretch out and relax at the end of a very long day.
It was a small late evening class with only about 5 other people participating. The very sneaky teacher had turned down the lights and put on some soft yoga music in the background. Even having to use one of the community yoga mats (ewww, germs) wasn't going to get me down. I was ready to chill. Not so much chilling...Before I knew it I was ten chaturangas (a push up with your elbows pointing straight back) into a power yoga class. Normally no big deal, but after an hour of running/eliptical training, too much! I found myself in downard facing dog (the resting part of the sun salutation sequence) with my arms visibly trembling, exerting everything I had left in me to keep from face planting into the mat.
In this exhaustion, I realized that I felt oh so alive. Somehow, feeling my body's frailty made the act it was doing more amazing. I'd felt similar thrills that combined both my physical limits and my ability to reach beyond them during other athletic moments: at the top of a climbing wall, shaking partly with fatigue, partly with adrenaline; at the end of a run where I went farther than I ever thought my unwilling legs could carry me; or back in college after three-a-day preseason practices, the feeling that I couldn't perform for one more minute but surprising myself by playing even harder.
Later, I wondered about the idea of finding our strength in weakness and what other areas of life this could apply to. I find it much harder to take risks emotionally than I do physically. Emotional risks, like telling someone how you really feel about them, confronting someone close to you, letting new people into your life, starting an ambitious program/project, applying for a job or promotion you don't think you can get, are the equivalent of working without a net. In physical activities, there are options if the weakness becomes too much. I could do child's pose, there is a trusted person holding the ropes, I could call a time out. But in real life, sometimes we have to make the leap without knowing for sure if we can make it to the other side. Some of us are lucky enough to have emotional safety nets in people who have our back no matter what and will scrape us off the pavement if we misjudge the jump. However, in the end, we have to be the ones to take the chance. We can calculate all we want, but it comes down to believing that despite how inadequate we might feel, there are depths of strength in us that we don't even know we have.
Here's to a year of taking more chances on others and on myself.
01/08/07
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
