No One Has to Worry About Me.

You might think I’m some hard-bodied babe or a bad-a$$ bully girl, and that would be wrong. I’m too soft, I’m very cuddly, I am insecure, and I have a hard time sitting down on the ground. Lately, I have a hard time sitting in a chair or sleeping in bed. Most of the time something hurts. A lot of the time I feel inadequate and klutzy. I always wonder what I’ll be when I grow up, when I’ll peak professionally or personally, or if I missed my chance altogether.

I am no one’s competition.

There are some of you who know me and will say to yourself:

• I’m a better writer than her.
• How did she get him to marry her?
• What kind of mother is she?
• I can swim, run, and bike better than she can.
• She’s fat.
• She’s got the worst hair.
• She tells stupid jokes and she’s so not funny.

I am embarrassed by my mistakes, I’m forgetful, and I let my family and friends down a lot.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I were better. And I guess that’s why I’m not ready to give it all  up and say I don’t give a sh^t. Because I do. The swimming, running, and biking are ways I deal with my body and my body image. This blog is how I deal with the demons in my head, and the occasional personal victory and attagirl I want to give myself. At work I try, try, try.

Last night I rode my bicycle up Kilauea Avenue three times. It wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t that easy. And although I was with a group, I had to break away, I had to do it at my own pace and not on someone else’s wheel. At the top I circled a few times before descending, heart still racing, double-vision from my tears that seem to fall when the wind blows at my face.

At the bottom I reach for my bandanna and dab my eyes, down shift, and head back up.

Seems I’m always dabbing my eyes and heading back up.