Tag Archives: thoughts
I spent some time thinking, late last night. I was in a small amount of pain as a result of my most recent half marathon training effort, in which I managed 2.5 miles – for the majority of which I genuinely thought I was going to die. And this pain led me to panic to no small extent about the real thing. I have six weeks to go from thinking I am dying during a 2-mile run, to surviving 13 miles. And there it was; fear of failure.
This maybe isn’t the best example of what I’m trying to say here, because it didn’t take me all that long to come to the conclusion that, hey, how many people ever get this far in the pursuit of a fitness/exercise related goal? How was I to know, when I started out, that the regular exercise we all believe to be holy and divine and to have the power to transform us into our very best selves, was in fact going to destroy my health inch by disappearing inch? How many people have ever been in that “enviable” position of neither needing nor wanting to lose any weight or burn any more calories than they did before they started running 20 miles a week? That place where running 20 miles a week will leave them feeling wiped out all the time, weighing scarily less than they used to and bingeing on all the junk they can find (whilst at the same time trying to fit in the recommended amounts of healthy stuff every day) in a desperate effort to feel alive and get some kind of a figure back?
No; all things considered, it wouldn’t really be a sign of failure if I were to heed my body’s sage warnings and end this madness. I could do something less potentially life-threatening in aid of the charity people donated money to in my name. Although the whole point of my doing this was so that I could feel like I’d achieved something at the end of it, I was labouring under all of the universally held assumptions surrounding physical exertion. I still have every intention of continuing to train, of completing the race, of achieving the aim; I am just massively looking forward to vegging out and returning to a healthy weight and not-feeling-like-a-zombie when it’s all over and done with.
From that train of thought I guess I finally figured out what He meant when he said I need to fuck up more.
There aren’t that many everyday fuck-ups that are impossible to get through, to survive and recover from. Whether I run the race and come out of it hideously unhealthy or pull out and find something else admirable to do for the charity, things will work out and everything will be ok in the end. At the very worst, at least I know a kick-ass way to lose weight should I ever need to.
And yet, with most of everything I do (or want to do, could do, should do but don’t) I am held back by the crippling terror of it all going horribly wrong. The reason I am so afraid is because I’ve so far never allowed anything to go horribly wrong enough in my life. I haven’t experienced the outcome of that, that recovery from that crash, that new door opening because an old one closed. I haven’t taken the calculated risk, because I got too scared during the calculation.
Except in one area of my life; the one He became a part of as a result of my past fuck-ups. Relationships. Having been messed with in all imaginable ways by past partners (I know that makes me sound like an old woman at the tender age of 21; there have been less than a handful of past partners, just enough to teach me most of all I’ll ever need to know) I have reached a position of relative fearlessness where my current one is concerned. Ok so a sizable portion of that may just be due to the fact that he isn’t an asshole like the others were. A sizable portion may be due to the fact that I knew that about him all along, even before I chose to ignore all rationality and spend a stupid amount of my precious time with one of said asshole others. A sizable portion may be due to the fact that eventually giving in to common sense felt like going home from a long vacation in several cities where I could never belong.
Of course I still have worries, I still have doubts, nobody is perfect. But the thing is, I know now that whatever happens, I will be ok in the end. I will survive, I will recover. After my very first proper relationship failed when he cheated on me for the second time (with one of my good friends, no less) I didn’t think life could go on. I thought I had lost the love of my life (ha. ha ha ha). I was devastated, heartbroken. Nowadays I am embarrassed to think that I ever indulged in such emotions for his sake; really, he was never any good to me. I am baffled as to why I never figured that out at the time. Perhaps I did, maybe I always knew we weren’t right together but was just too afraid to admit it and let go. And so he trampled all over me and… I survived. I learned. I learned to look at things differently and realised that things turned out for the best on all sides. Ok so I took a longer and more dangerous route than I should have to get to where I am now, but I made it; I am still here and I have developed a backbone and I will never put with that kind of bullshit in a relationship again. As one half of a couple, I now have self-worth. In the event of misbehaviour on His part, we both know that I will be ok. I will survive, I will get over it, I will maintain that self-worth. Sure, he could hurt me… but I could heal. And this is why, despite the long-distance nature of our relationship, we have managed so far. This is how I have the strength to trust him, to believe him and believe in him, to back off when he needs me to and to never be jealous or clingy or have ridiculous expectations of either of us. I have no intention of hurting him, and I believe him when he tells me he would never do anything to hurt me. Oh, and we’re both smart enough to realize and take responsibility when our actions have unintentionally harmed each other. Without speaking too soon, I think this really, really works.
Now I just need the courage/stupidity/naivety to throw more than my whole self into something work-related and be prepared to watch it go gloriously tits-up (as the saying goes round here), in the name of closing that long distance.
Not sure where it originated but one of my friends posted this on Facebook earlier, and it made me smile more than once. Therefore it belongs right here.
What Love means to a 4-8 year old: A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year-olds, ’What does love mean?’ The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.
See what you think:
‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore… So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.’ – Rebecca, age 8
‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different.You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.’ – Billy, age 4
‘Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.’ – Karl, age 5
‘Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.’ –Chrissy, age 6
‘Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.’ -Terri, age 4
‘Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.’ – Danny, age 7
‘Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more. My Mommy and Daddy are like that.
They look gross when they kiss’ – Emily, age 8
‘Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents
and listen.’ –Bobby, age 7
‘If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate” –Nikka, age 6
‘Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt , then he wears it everyday.’ –Noelle, age 7
‘Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.’ –Tommy, age 6
‘During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’t scared anymore.’ – Cindy, age 8
‘My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don’t see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.’ –Clare, age 6
‘Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.’ –Elaine, age 5
‘Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.’ –Chris, age 7
‘Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.’ -Mary Ann, age 4
‘I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.’ –Lauren, age 4
‘When you love somebody , your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.’ – Karen, age 7
‘Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn’t think it’s gross..’ –Mark, age 6
‘You really shouldn’t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.’ –Jessica, age 8
(I refuse to officially call myself a loser just yet).
Probably 99% of the time the inner workings of my brain could be fairly accurately represented by the concept of a fistfight between Lady GaGa and a Moomin.
(A giant moomin who appears to be winning most of the time, if only by virtue of her sheer size and squishiness… in spite of which we’re all still rooting for GaGa).
Sorry. Odd little mood today.
It was about 10.30pm, and I was on a train and in my third hour of a journey home from London.
Somewhere on the opposite side of the carriage and a couple of seats behind mine were sitting a young mother and her little boy – who was at a guess around two years old.
For most of the journey the pair were babbling away to each other in that way that mothers and toddlers do. Then we reached a station a couple of stops away from my own (and a couple more still away from theirs), and as the train slowed to a halt the boy got ridiculously excited, jumping up and down screaming ‘Are we there are we there are we there? Mummy, are we there???’
No, mummy explained, no we’re not there yet. This is Thorne, we’ve got about 45 minutes to go…
and so (even though I’m pretty sure this kid was far too young to understand ’45 minutes’) he began to cry. Loudly. Wailing and sobbing as if the most tragic thing in the world, ever, had just happened to him.
(At this point the teenage boy sitting in front of and opposite to me, with whom I’d looked up from my book to make brief eye contact, shared a smirk with me before mumbling something which might have been ‘oh god, please no’).
After about 30 seconds of the mournful hysterics the mother put us all out of our misery/mild irritation;
“Oh… Stop Pretending To Cry!”
And so he did. Instantly. And remained silent for the next thirty seconds before starting up all over again.
Maybe you had to be there, but I had to giggle.