I love exercise and other lies I tell myself

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I almost had myself talked out of walking this morning. I got up later than usual. Seven thirty instead of my usual four or five that I get up during the week. I was home alone so I thought I catch up on some sleep. I really like sleeping. I’ve mentioned this before. I have great vivid dreams of exciting adventures and since I know how to do directed dreaming things almost always go my way. I’m a bit of a control freak, so any place where I get what I want, is a good place. Hence, my overwhelming joy in sleeping, napping, having a bit of a snooze.

I need an hour and two cups of coffee before I’m in any way functional, so it was eight thirty or quarter to nine and I began telling myself how I had other things to do and it was hot out and if I walked I wouldn’t be able to do anything else for the rest of the day. Oh, yeah, I’m good with the negative talk.

Then I felt guilty because my daughter has an UP band and we can see each other’s status and she would ask me where mine was. I started with the negative reinforcement or inducements or whateves which would have surely caused me to sit my ass down and not move an inch. I decided instead to make nice nice with me.

Reciting the benefits I knew I would reap if I managed to get over my initial hurdles, I pulled on socks, pants, bra and shirt. I got dressed, in clothes, on a Sunday, yes I did. I knew I would clear my mind of all of the junk that collects there overnight. I’d come up with some good ideas ~ always a nice bonus. I’d warm up my left knee and my hip joints. I’d sweat out toxins. Once I was done, I would feel better physically and I’d be proud of my accomplishment. Only I know how truly hard it is to get me moving. When getting out of bed each morning is a major victory, walking out the door is like climbing Mount Everest.

Before I start, I get grumpy face. I can feel myself scowling and I can feel the tension growing in my neck and shoulders. I build this fantasy in my mind that exercising is like slogging through a clogged sewer drain, sort of like the scene in which Andy Dufresne escapes from Shawshank Prison. If he knew how disgusting and smelly it would be, I bet he wouldn’t even try. That image is not easy to get over.

Since I know, intellectually, that once I get going, I actually enjoy walking, I need a new picture, a new vision of the walking experience. Something light and musical and rhythmic, like dancing or maybe a butterfly flitting from one beautiful flower to another, collecting pollen and nectar. Maybe I can be light as a fairy. I’d like to be a fairy.

fickle finger of fairy fate

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Once upon a time (actually just last week), there lived a pointy fairy named Molly Sweet. She was pink and smelled like cotton candy. The pointy part comes in because she gelled her hair up in sharp peaks that shot off in all directions from her head. She didn’t speak.

The other fairies badgered her day and night with questions.

Simple questions:

“What’s your name?” They didn’t know her name was Molly Sweet. Only I know which is why I was able to tell you.

“Can I lick you?” She smelled like cotton candy, remember? I hope you’re paying attention ‘cus this shit is important.

Difficult questions:

“Why is the sky green?” Yes, the sky is green. You’re just color-blind.

“Why do you taste like cotton candy?” One fairy actually got close enough to lick Molly Sweet. He just barely got out the fact that Molly Sweet not only smelled like cotton candy but did indeed also taste like cotton candy just before he died of the injuries Molly Sweet inflicted on him.

No matter what they threw at her, she remained quiet.

No one knew why she didn’t speak. They didn’t know if she was incapable or if she choose not to. She showed up one day (actually just last week) and never said a word. The other fairies were naturally curious.

Fairies are big talkers. They like to share. They like to overshare. They like to fill the air with their jibber jabber. You know that chattering sound you hear that you attribute to grasshoppers rubbing their legs together? That’s really a plague of fairies all talking over one another. From the minute they open their eyes each night they start: their glossy purple stockings, the nectar they supped, flying through the dogwood blossoms, outwitting fireflies, kidnapping babies, disrupting the regimented lives of worker bees and army ants, the smell coming from between a dragon’s toes. On and on, from moonrise to sunset, they produce a ceaseless amount of noise.

The other big thing about fairies is that they want what they want when they want it which is usually like now or sooner. So when Molly Sweet didn’t give them any indication of what was up with her, they began a systematic attempt to force a response from her. This wasn’t planned. It’s just how fairies are. You know, the nature of the beast.

They tried everything: banana peels on the pathway she took to the brook, pulling her wings, hiding her hair gel. This lasted about seven minutes. Fairies have short attention spans. Next thing you know, a squirrel ran through their glade and they were off hiding his nuts from him.

Molly Sweet stamped her tiny foot. The jewel encrusted rings on her toes sparkled in the star light.

“Hey,” she screamed out at the disappearing fairies. But it was too late. They were off on new adventures and she was no longer the center of their attention. Her moment of fame had passed.