On New Year’s Eve, I stepped on the scale and realized that I weighed 150 pounds less than I did on the same day in 2001. That’s weird. Ten more pounds and I am officially half my heaviest weight. Between the fat I carried around since childhood and the two children I’ve carried in my body since, my skin remains an adequate container for those 320 pounds. Someday, when I’m all done expanding and contracting, I might get it all cut off and see what my body would look like had I not spent the first two decades of my life eating frosted Donettes. In the meantime, I strap it down with spandex and avoid looking in the mirror when I jump rope.
After ten years of resolving to lose weight, this year I’m more focused on the weight I can pick up off the floor than the weight I want to work off my body. I have my eyes set on a 255 pound squat and deadlift (1.5x my bodyweight) , and at least one unassisted pull-up. And a handstand. And complete mastery of the jump rope.
And all of that needs to be accomplished before I give my body over to another baby. If they’re all going to be 2.5 years apart, I’ve got until June. I can do all of that in six months. Right?
Other things I plan to dominate this year:
My fear of being ordinary. Blame it on the Aim-High program, or my parents, or Sesame Street, but I’ve always had a deep, deep belief that if I am ordinary in any way, I am worthless. Every part of me must be exceptional, special, perfect. As a mother in the age of information, the internet made it abundantly clear that I am not a unique snowflake. I am just a flower in the field. In the past, this truth silenced me. Dumb. This year I’ll just write whatever I want about whatever I care about and not spend a single second worrying about whether it’s been said before. You know why? Cause it’s been said before.
My fear of friends. Strangers don’t scare me. Strangers don’t have pictures of me from ten years ago or old letters I wrote when I was out of my mind. Strangers don’t remember that I’m supposed to be a published poet, Master Gardener, televangelist with four advanced degrees. But friends do. And friends think it’s damn funny that my permanent outfit nowadays is black spandex and Vibram Five Fingers.
My fear of my kids. I’m totally going to screw them up, but probably not in the ways I think. I need to relax and just let them be the bizarre, terrifying combinations of two bizarre and terrifying people, plus all that stuff that makes them their own weird people. If I’m going to make another one, I’ve gotta let go of the fear of ruining the ones I already have. My kids are healthy, safe, and their stories are written by a hand greater than mine.
So, that’s my list. Pick up heavy stuff, be normal, be nice, be a mom. What’s on your list?