There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.
Inside most every larger person I know, there lives a giant pack of emotional firecrackers just waiting for some fool to drop a match in the wrong direction. ka-BOOM. I had a friend who was so psyched to be getting ready for a U2 concert, and two of her people decided it was also going to be The Day that they Informed Her that she had a Significant Weight Problem and Needed To Do Something About It/Okay now that that's out of the way, let's go check out what's up with the Edge, shall we?
Well. It destroyed her. What did they think was going to happen?
So ya go around-if ya go around a bit larger-internally combustable and maybe just a little bit bruised like a peach. That's just how it is. It never stops you from functioning. Perish the thought. The larger ones-they function on a very high level-as far as I can tell.
And I've been thinking about this-because I've been thinking about that question of what's your biggest weakness? When I was a kid, Glamour Magazine advised women to say 'chocolate' and because I am a crazy paragraph chomping reader, I actually used that answer on a job interview and scored the gig. It amazes me still.
(For the record-I never got to rock the blouse with the floppy bow. Sad Trombone.)
I think, one of my most gigantic weaknesses is that I get too excited. Like when I do social media? When I know I have something spectacular-I press "publish" like I'm a contestant on the Price Is Right.
When I got called into the personal trainers office, I got way too excited. I didn't think about what it might mean from her end. My head went directly to: Hmm what in the entire anatomical universe could I ask her? Like I had won the Personal Trainer Showcase Showdown or something even better.
Long story short. In that same room, were two smiling 12- year-old-looking interns who, of course, appeared to think they Knew Everything. And so, because I had pre-decided I really needed to Ask For Help, I revealed the one thing I was really struggling with and that is this: ever since all these abdominal surgeries? I have a Real Problem getting up and down off the floor.
A real problem.
I'm like a baby giraffe just crashing out of the womb. It takes me for-f'ing-ever and if I had time to see myself I am sure I look like a totally and complete oafcake but I don't have time because by the time I am actually up offa the floor and able to look around? Everyone is way-way-way on to the next thing and I pull my head up bewildered like an f'ing maroon.(You think I exaggerate? Are you me?) I just wanted to keep up with the other reindeer. Was that too much to ask?
The trainers asked me to demonstrate. It. was. horrendous. They charitably said things sweetly like: it's okay. Take your time.
As if I had a choice.
And the conversation went like: Hmmm after your surgeries, you didn't have any physical therapy? And I'm like Phfffffttttt. Listen children, they feed you the most hideous gack right out of colon surgery, how could a person even think about the idea of physical therapy. And because this one trainer thought I might just have the same sort of abdominal weakness found in women who've experienced multiple pregnancies-Diastasic Recti-all of a sudden my fantasy appointment began to turn into a soft sell of a three pack of personal training.
I felt so wounded.
Eventually, I escaped but I was still sputtering about the indignity of clawing myself up and off the floor for several days. Maybe a week.(At a very low level, of course. I have other smoked salmon to not fry. So to speak.) But, man. I felt so Post U2 interventionalized, ya know?
This is how we eat smoked salmon. So fancy, huh?
Well. What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. After I got over myself, I unpacked it-as the cool kids say and I remembered the Very First Question was about Physical Therapy and did I have any, and the answer was: I never asked. I didn't even know that I could. (and that was a tiny theme in the recent Cancer and Careers seminar. The only question sure to be never answered in the affirmative is the one that never gets asked.)
So I did.
And guess what? At the end of my third Physical Therapy session this past Friday? When I, once again, got my nerve up to reveal my turtle on it's back approach to getting up off the gym floor? It was met-not with a sale pitch or an incorrect diagnosis but with a simple: Stay right here.
And Courtney returned with a foam rectangle to kneel on and she demonstrated for me, what shall be known for all of eternity as The Floor Dismount.
And here, because maybe somebody else is struggling with the very same shit, is my 2-second artists rendering because I never want to forget those tiny droplets of liquid joy that collected in the corners of my eyes, when I stood right up and breathed.
(Come back tomorrow. I'm working on a better drawing.)