Tomorrow, you should've been here today

I studied theatre in college, but I minored in the art of procrastination. The best soul-searching letters could only be written in the wee hours before a paper was due. What better time to clean my side of the dorm room but before an exam? The little matters that were of no consequence to me all week now became the focus of my attention. It was imperative that I correct all of them before I could possibly consider the notion of beginning to study.

I understand how this happens as a young adult. We are evolving into fully-fledged selves, still exploring priorities, time management and self-discipline. But now? I’m too old for this shit. Just get it done, I tell myself. And still it sits.

This would bother me less if the object of my delay was not something I actually want to do. Take writing a blog entry, for instance. One might not guess this, based on how infrequently I post, but I’m doing this for fun. I want to contribute to it on a regular basis. In fact, I often talk to my sister about increasing the number of posts per month. The result: I haven’t posted in two months.

At work, I often force myself to create false deadlines in order to complete some inane piece of business I dread. That’s work, though, not life. This, as I type, is happening for no reason other than because I choose it. In which case, what took me so long to get around to it?

Today I am hunkering down in the heart of the procrastination beast and I want to throw stones at it. Take that!

Except.

I know why I put things off. You know why I put things off. Things feel insurmountable. I don’t know where to begin. I am afraid the end result will be a disappointment. All that work will have been for nothing. Yada yada yada.

Oh, who’s there? Fear of failure? Ah, hello there, old chum. I’ve been waiting for you. Jump in, we’re going for a ride. Destination: the next thing on my Want-To-Do list. On the way there, I’ll tell you about this idea I’ve had for a children’s story...

Taking it Bird by Bird...and Wall by Wall

My brother, who was ten at the time, was trying to get a report written on birds that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day…he sat immobilized by the hugeness of the task at hand.

Then my father put his arm around my brother’s shoulder and said,

“Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

- excerpted from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird:

Some Instructions on Writing and Life

When H and I first lived together as adults, it was in a small two-bedroom on 104th Street on the dodgy side of Broadway. H had found the place while I was still on my personal leave from Life and immersed in the sun and natural beauty of Maui. Anticipating my rough transition from tropical paradise to urban grit, she found us a place with a balcony. It was a tar-covered balcony in the corner of the building's “courtyard”, which if you know anything about New York real estate usually translates into “elevator shaft.” We looked out on the sooty backsides of the buildings around us.

To soften the stark white walls of the apartment, I painted them. H’s bedroom was done in a Tuscan yellow, my bedroom had one green wall that I had meant to be a soothing bamboo green but turned out to be more of an alarming, bright lime, and the far wall in the shared living space was a cappuccino brown. In less than a year, we had found a brighter, bigger place to live on the prettier side of Broadway, and I was faced with the task of painting over all those walls.

I quickly unraveled. At the thought of all there was to do, I collapsed onto the couch with an outcry of the To Do List that ended with, “AND I have to repaint all the walls!” Repainting the walls became – and remains to this day - our euphemism for anything and everything that feels too big of an obstacle.

Bird by bird, H reminded me. I took it wall by wall.

Healing a bruised heart takes time. As much as I don’t want it to, it does. I thought I had found someone to love, but he wasn’t ready or available or (insert other reason here) to love me back in the same way. And so, this winter, I’ve been healing. And figuring out what's next.

And trying to write.

And eating kale. Lots of kale.

Apparently, to add insult to the injury of a bruised heart, I’m aging. This was most recently confirmed when my doctor informed me I was borderline for bone density loss. Also, according my recent mammogram, my breasts are shrinking. (Is this because I haven’t had children yet? My breasts no longer serve their purpose? Good grief!) And the skin above my kneecaps looks older. I can’t tell you exactly how, but it does.

But back to the issue of bone density loss. According to my doctor, I am not too far-gone; in fact, I can reverse the loss if I commit to eating dark greens and partake in weight bearing exercises. So I’ve been eating kale. And trying to get into handstand. And running.

Now, when people first meet me they often assume a few things. First, that I’m a vegetarian and a healthy eater. Second, that having taken yoga classes for many years translates into being a seasoned yogi who can get into a variety of poses with little trouble. And finally, that I'm a runner. I know this because new acquaintances will say, “You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you?” “You seem very healthy.” Etcetera.

It’s oh-for-three on all fronts.

Am I healthy? Healthy enough. But I’m no poster child for healthy. If you take a peak into my grocery basket, you are sure to find a box of chocolate wafers or fruit gummies or a bag of chips hidden beneath the yogurt and bananas and ubiquitous box of frozen turkey meatballs. A good friend said to me not so long ago, "You eat like a bachelor." Enough said.

Vegetarian? You should have seen the pile of ribs I ordered a few weeks ago. I asked the waiter if he recommended them. He nodded enthusiastically but warned, “That’s a big plate of meat.” And the man sitting beside me at the bar nodded in agreement, “It’s a Big Plate of Meat.” They doubted my meat-eating ability. I showed them.

As for running, I’m currently in training to run a 5K. A lot of people laugh when they hear that and scoff at the idea that a 5K needs to be trained for at all. But my brain automically translates "5K" into "marathon." And when my body hears that I’m about to run a marathon, it slowly unravels and screams, “I can’t do this! I need to eat more greens! I need to strengthen my bones. AND I have to repaint the walls!” See how it works?

I downloaded the From Couch to 5K pod cast a few weeks ago and have been running to it. Coach Laura is British and pep talks me along the way. “You might be feeling tired right now,” she counsels as my legs begin to feel like lead, “but you’ve only got 60 seconds left. Don’t give up. You’ve done this before and you can do it again.” The British accent helps.

Run by run, buddy. Run by run.

Two of my friends are also running with this program and sharing in the agony. The other day, one of my friends and I passed one another mid-run; we attempted to high-five in support, but we were apparently too tired and our high five was a near miss, a sad, soft slap of the pinkies. We mustered enough energy to chuckle and ran off slowly in opposite directions.

Last Saturday, the three of us ran our first 5K together. None of us had finished our 9-week training program, but we went for it anyway. It may only have been 3.2 miles but afterwards I felt as though I could do anything.

Do a handstand. Paint a wall. Post a blog entry. Love again.

In celebration, I baked some kale.