Breathe…

Many years ago, it became apparent that there was no reason to make New Year’s Resolutions because I always drop them somewhere along the way—especially those having to do with self-care: weight loss, relaxation time and general self-improvement. Touting wise time management prowess, it just made sense to gain knowledge from serious exercise gurus while reclining and eating my favorite chocolate dessert thus covering all three areas in a single bound. That single bound usually found me in a guilty fat heap covering my head and vowing that there would not be a next time—until the next time.

Resolutions made in the dead of winter were doomed anyway. However, spring was another story. So, I recruited a friend with a ton of knowledge, a head full of expertise and years of combat experience in the battle of the bulge. Knowing me well, my wise friend gave me small reachable goals. I have read a few hundred times that those (small, reachable goals) work. The first week we reduced caffeine intake and stopped eating after seven o’clock. (After midnight snacks do not count—you go by the day. It is not necessary to be so technical). My water intake was good. It figures, the one thing in the weight loss regime that I have under my belt (no pun intended), water consumption has been scientifically proven not to make a difference. I say “hogwash” to that discouraging propaganda. Water consumption has long been standing alone in my positive column and by George, it ain’t moving. Anyway, I clicked the list off with great resolve, caffeine reduction….check. Not eating after seven (technically) ….check.

A week into my new lifestyle and I was feeling pretty pumped, still very plump but pretty pumped. Anyway, I should have known that the torture would soon ensue. My kind-hearted friend smiled as she came toward me with a book of “how-to” exercise pictures and a box of bands. I am not kidding; my friend carried a box of giant-sized rubber bands. She handed me a section and started coaching. I watched my mild mannered friend turn into an insurgent on a mission and I was the target. Tiny muscles that I did not know existed sprang to attention—screaming mild obscenities and begging for mercy. Larger muscles woke from their extended hibernation rubbing their eyes in disbelief and horror. In unison my revolting body sang out, “What on earth do you think you are doing?” My valiant attempt at reassuring the choir in my head that all was well and that this was very good for us—was interrupted by my friend, turned drill sergeant ordering, “Breathe, you have to breathe.” My brain, oxygen deprived or not, had an “aha” moment.

That was the glitch. I had been racing through life on auto pilot; meeting needs, fielding demands, and making deadlines. Even vacation plans were attached to a list, systematically hacked away and completed without even realizing that the vacation had come and gone. Breathe. I did not know how to breathe. Obviously, the mechanics masterfully locked in by creative genius had operated correctly for quite some time. However, I did not know how to really breathe….to enjoy a sunrise without racing the clock; to hold my child tightly and enjoy the scent of a freshly showered mop of hair without rushing him away to an undone chore; I did not know how to breathe. No wonder “me” resolutions were impossible. They were just one more weight tied to an already worn out neck, one more thing to do.Today, I can’t say that the scales register a result that thrills my heart or takes the stress off my zipper. I am a work in progress. I will probably have an “under construction” sign around my neck when I step into Heaven. Nevertheless, that spring afternoon that my muscles refer to as their “near death experience” taught me a great deal about savoring life and really breathing.