poeticdesires

Category: Wisdom

  • Three Words

    Bravery. Forgiveness. Endurance.

    Life has a way of falling into place for me as of late. I wanted to write something thought provoking tonight, but lacked a topic…that is until I read my friend Graydancer’s blog. His latest got me thinking (again), and thus my entry started germinating.

    His latest blog, Word Up, talks about an idea from Chris Brogen, using three words to “describe the themes you want to focus on for the upcoming year.” These are not goals, but instead are touchstones for your year, ideas to go back to and strive to weave into your everyday life.

    I knew mine before I even finished reading.


    Bravery

    I think some people who know me would say I posses this quality. I try to live a very open life. I want to be truly me, always. But, right now, I must admit next year scares me.

    I have a lot on my plate. I have opportunities in both my work, kink, and writing lives that get me all twitchy. I fear I will not be able to live up to who I want to be, what I want to do, how far I want to push myself in the next twelve months.

    So, I shall hold tight to the idea of being brave.

    I will take on new work responsibilities, viewing my new found leadership potential as a challenge (not a threat).

    I will go to my events possibly knowing people. However, either way, I will hold up my head, introduce myself to many many people, and see where life takes me from there.

    I will write, not thinking about how others will view my work, love or criticize, hail or trash. I will write for me, for the love of my stories, my characters. I will pour my heart out onto the page and see where life decides to let the words flow.

    I will be brave, even when I’m scared. Even when all I want to do is curl up in a ball under the covers and snuggle with Tessie. I will not let myself be less than all I could possibly be, with or without the jitters.


    Forgiveness

    I want to work on giving myself a fucking break. Often times I beat up myself for little missteps, mistakes, bumbles, opps, etc.

    I am a much harsher judge of myself than I will ever be of anyone else. I seek a level of ability, or near perfection, I would never expect in others. I chastise myself for small mistakes when the same deeds in others I merely brush off.

    This year, I will endeavor to not lecture myself on the simple faux pas. I will work to accept that whatever happened happened, that I do not need (nor should I ever expect) to be perfect, that people will still love and care about me if I do something stupid, or forget something minor, or just plain fuck up. I must learn to let things go, to release my anxiety, to let it roll off my back.

    My friendships, and my life, are not balanced on the head of a pen. I need to stop believing that they are.


    Endurance

    I have set myself up with multiple highly ambitious goals:

    – attending ten (or more) events

    – taking every Sunday off for my writing

    – finishing at least one (if not two) novels

    With that as just my baseline, I have more on my plate than most would ever dare eat. But, I have an ace in the hole: endurance.

    Often people ask me how I survive at events. For those who don’t know, I usually go to bed around 6am and am up around 9am. My standard answer is adrenaline and shear force of will.

    To an extent, this is true. My job has assisted in teaching me how to function on low amounts of sleep. However, when I am at an event, for the most part, it is those two ingredients that get me through.

    However, for the year, this will not work. Instead, I know I have to pace myself. I know I need to budget time for work, play, AND rest. I have to learn to endure not just a night or a weekend, but for weeks, months, my entire year.

    I have faith in myself to be able to achieve all my goals. I will have excellent amazing sexy fun times at events. I will write and write and write. And I will finish, dammit; I will finish.

    So, those are my three words. I encourage you to ponder the idea, and then head to Gray’s blog and let him know what yours are.

  • Flawed

    A recent letter from a far away friend got me thinking.

    Though I’ve spoken recently concerning what I love about myself and what makes me me, other than one or two choice entries, I have not extensively talked about my flaws.

    As a mostly positive person, I tend to shy away from the aspects of myself I do not like. I’ve spoken about the undue pressure I put on myself, as well as my tendency to compare my life to others. I think, since I have talked about what I love about me, it’s time to talk about some of the things I like less about myself. (I am not fool enough to think these are my only flaws, just the ones I can think of right now.)

    Daddy issues/Insecurities

    I suppose it is a cliche that I am a cis-gendered woman and have Daddy issues. But, to be fair, I did grow up in a situation that lent itself to this flaw.

    I am the product of an affair, and never actually lived with my father. One of my half brothers did, a fact that rocked me to my core when I learned it. My mind took the leap that I was not good enough, not loved enough by my father to have earned this privilege. It didn’t help that he was, and is, a man who lacks the ability to freely talked about his emotions and express his feelings.

    Later I learned the living situation was due to certain issues in my brother’s life. And, as an adult, I have grown closer to both my father and my brother. Yet still, it lingers. That feeling of not being good enough. Of not being loved enough. Of being less than.

    This has migrated and morphed into a sense of insecurity around myself in general. When someone I like doesn’t like me, I don’t make the logical conclusion that we just didn’t click. Instead I think that I’m not pretty enough, not funny enough, not submissive enough, not anything enough.

    And I go into the blue donut of doom, and Green Eyes cackles at me, and no good happens from these moments.

    Accepting my body

    I’ve been larger than average for as long as I can remember. My mother is a very large woman and I grew up with her as my model. I ate my portion, thinking it was bad to leave any food on the plate, even if I was stuffing myself. My mother was very sedentary, often spending her weekends in front the television and doing little else. There was a time, as a child, where I craved physical play, but the neighborhood we moved to was less than ideal and my time outside was stopped.

    Later on in life, while in college, I was so broke I spent only $10 a week on food. I often asked my friends if they were going to finish their meals. Food had become a commodity to me. I lost a lot of weight my junior year in college, so much so that people in my major noticed. But this was not a healthy way to do so, seeing as I was on the razor’s edge of starving.

    Now I know when things are going well in my life because I am not hungry, and I can, and do, eat when I want. Unfortunately, it is also when I gain weight.

    That year in college found me at my lowest weight since the middle of high school. From then on, I’ve gained thirty pounds. Ideally, I’d want to find my way back to that body and that weight, just not in that way.

    When I look in the mirror, sometimes I see my beauty. Other times, I feel angry, or sick, or worse pathetic. I know I’ve done this to myself and just want to scream.

    I ate because it was comforting. I ate because it was pleasurable. I ate because I could. 

    Recently, with my new found need to be physical six days a week, I eat because I’m hungry. I eat because if I don’t I get dizzy when I run. I eat because I need to.

    Yet still, when I look in the mirror, I can’t always be happy with what I see.
     
    Burying my Domme

    There is a side of me that I’m nervous, and almost afraid, to let out.

    My Domme persona has not been nourished near enough for my satisfaction.

    It is easy for me to drop into my sub space. It’s what I know. DeepEnd put it best when he said it can be like a mental vacation. Other times, it is allowing my emotional pain to manifest itself in my body. Often times, I am their for others, to serve them in whatever way they need.

    But, when I am a Domme, when the mean little brat gets to romp around, I get nervous. 

    She likes being mean. Like really really mean. She likes laughing at other people’s pain. She loves toying with their bodies like they were her toys. She loves pushing them til they break. And though I know I shouldn’t, I fear what that means about me, what that makes me.

    So I bury her. She gets little food other than watching scenes, some fucking, and occasional fantasies. 

    And I know this is wrong. I know I shouldn’t push this part of myself aside, that I should embrace her and feed her needs. But I have yet to find a way to allow myself to go there, to truly sink in deep and gallop around in my darkness.

    And I don’t know how get there either.

  • Music Saves Me

    When you walk by every night/Talking sweet and looking fine/I get kinda hectic inside/Baby I’m so into you/Darling if you only knew/All the things that go through my mind
    Mariah Carey – Fantasy
     
    I wanna dance with somebody/I wanna feel the heat with somebody/Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody/With somebody who loves me
    Whitney Houston – I Wanna Dance With Somebody
     
    What a difference…

    So I wrote, I think, two years ago about a rather unpleasant experience. I was driving my then SO, now Ex, to work as he slept in the passenger seat. Along the ride, the song “Let’s Get Married” by Jagged Edge came on. I loved this song, and would normally sing along, but instead I found myself teary eyed. So much so, in fact, I had to switch stations.

    I soon realized this was because I was in a relationship with someone who, indeed, did not want to get married, a fact that knawed at me, but I didn’t realize how much until that particular tune came on.

    Fast forward to tonight, when the DJ played that song. Instead of being upset, on the verge of tears, I smiled. I sang along. I was, dare I say it, hopeful. No, I’m not in a long term relationship currently, but I have faith it will happen. I believe I will find my LTP(s) and I will have my wedding(s) someday.

    This is so much more than I can say for back then, when the most I received was a shared life but no formal commitment, pulling teeth when it came to the question of children, and the constant worry I was being over emotional.

    As the DJ continued his set list, I found myself singing along to more and more songs. Michael Jackson was heavily favored, including PYT (a personal favorite), Billie Jean, and Beat It. The Whitney and Mariah songs quoted above were also featured, two more I just had to sing along with.

    When I’m happy, when I’m sad. When I’m lonely, or just need something…else, I turn to music. The name of my first iPod was MusicSavesMe. This is the hashtag I use on Twitter when I feature a song I’ve downloaded.

    That simple statement is a truth in my life. I’ve linked so many special moments, sad moments, life changing and mundane occurences to music. It is like my heart beat, like the tempo of my breaths. Without it, I’m left emotionally raw and in need.

    Music has this special way of piercing the veil around my heart, sinking in its teeth, and swallowing me whole. And I am so grateful for it.

  • Love On Top

    “But I know it’s gonna take a little work/Nothing’s perfect/But it’s worth it/After fighting through my tears/And finally you put me first/Baby, it’s you/You the one I love/You’re the one I need/You’re the only one I see/Come one baby it’s you/You’re the one that gives your all/You’re the one I can always call/When I need you, you make everything stop/Finally you put my love on top”
     

    Recently, when I was driving home, I was enjoying the radio and found myself listening to one of Beyonce’s recent singles. Though my mother loves and adores the woman, I find Beyonce’s music to be just okay.

    However, for some reason, as I listened to Love On Top, it spoke to me. With each new lyric, I identified with another piece of what she was saying, but in a completely different way. As Beyonce went on and on about her now husband, Jay-Z, I kept finding the love she had for him reflected in myself.

    Looking back on the year I’ve had (which I will delve into more in a future post), things have been pretty fucking fantastic. No, not perfect, but damn good. I did not escape this year without tears, but my win column far exceeds my losses.

    Talking to my friends, it seems the strands of my view of myself and the way others view me are weaving together.

    I was chatting with my friend N3rddom after a She Wants Revenge concert, speaking about how I was unpartnered poly. Randomly, he stated he was sure I would have partners in the future. I just sort of looked at him and said, “Really?” He seemed confused that I didn’t realize this was going to happen. He started listing some awesome aspects of myself that of course I knew about but in that moment had not thought of. And the realization came to me. Oh yeah, I forgot. I’m fucking awesome.

    I was chatting with my friend SkinnyBitch and she flippantly said I lived the life of a queen. “Yeah, sure.” But then, in a less kidding and more real tone, she spoke about how I live my life the way I want, interact with whomever I want, when I want. I have a ton of freedom and use it to foster awesome friendships. Oh yeah, I forgot. I’m fucking awesome.

    So, loosely quoting from the song…

    I know it will take some work, because I am by no means perfect, but I’m worth that effort. Yes, there will be tears, as anyone who knows me knows I cry, a lot, but it’s time I put myself first.

    I love me. I need me to be me, no matter what. That person looking back at me in the morning in the mirror, brushing her teeth and smiling, is not all I want, but, for now, is all I need.

    When I wake up each morning, I will love the person I see, because I give my all. I’m the one all my good friends call because I’m am there for them, but I must now also be there for myself.

    I cannot make all my pain stop, but I can put me, and loving myself, on top.

  • Woo-ing Myself

    I read a recent post by my friend Gray Miller on his blog lovelifepractice.com. This particular entry focused on learning to love oneself. He concluded his entry with a simple question:

    What do you love about yourself?
     
    This got me thinking. So, I answered it.

    – My eyes. They say more than I can ever put into words. The dark brown luster speaks to me whenever I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or passing window. The hint of what lies beneath the mask I wear for the world is at times engaging, playful, lustful, and intense. I can have whole conversations with you using just my eyes.

    – My breasts are awesome. They’re full and squeezable. The perfect amount to fill your hands, to rest your head on, or to nuzzle up to. In the right bra, or with the proper arm positioning, my cleavage is quite distracting.

    My nipples are pierced, a tempting delight to all who venture a lick. I love the way they look when they’re erect, presenting the jewelry and asking, begging, to be pinched and sucked.

    – My ass. It’s just…hot. My ass is so sexy. There is a reason why I wrote poetry about it. It’s big and round and sits up just right, begging to be spanked, slapped, caressed, fucked.

    Once, randomly, a guy tried to balance a beer bottle on my ass. Granted, this was not a wanted advance, but I understand how one can be mesmerized by the wonder that is my rump. In fact, I have many a fond memory involving other people enjoying the wonder that is my ass.

    – My hair. It’s curly and wild and often begs to be loose and free. When I was young, I wore it in two braids at my sides. I loved flinging my head back and forth, wiping my braids from side to side, daring anyone to come near. The hard plastic ties at the ends were like weapons, ready to lash out at anyone who ventured too close. I loved the thump they made against my skin as the braids wrapped around my neck and hit my back.

    When I grew older, and still wore it long, I’d flat iron it.  My locks would brushed the top of my ass, and flow on the wind. Now, when I masturbate, with my hair out, I often walk into the bathroom afterwards and admire my “freshly fucked” locks, which look better than hours of primping could ever accomplish. 

    My hair makes me feel beautiful, feel sexy, feel special.

    – On occasion, I have a way with words. I’ve been writing since forever. There are still stories I wrote years ago that when I read them my blood runs hot with lust and I am thrown right back into its sensuous world. I paint pictures, spin tales, and chronicle my truths with words. Without them, without my words, I don’t know who I’d be.

    – I often say this, and it is very true: I cultivate my childlike whimsy everyday. I look at the world as I did when I was young: with wonder and amazement. I appreciate little things, which to me seem huge.

    Today, at the venue in which I’m currently working, there was an assortment of artistic photographs. I was enamored by each shot, diving in, and letting myself get lost in the stories. There were interesting modern art sculptures that I could draw similarities to that were at once thought provoking and hilarious (a fat owl, the head of a rooster, the negative space of a key hole). I keep things light, care free, reminding myself to smile and breathe in each moment, appreciating just being alive.

    – I am one of the best friends you will ever have. I go above and beyond to be there for the people I love. I trek hundred of miles, perform any number of small and large tasks, and try all I can to be the best friend possible. I give and give and give, and then give more. I am a fierce protector, soothing comforter, and steadfast confidant. I sacrifice myself for the happiness of those I care for. Above all else, this is what I love about myself the most.

    So, what do you love about yourself?

  • Being Present

    A close friend of mine recently paid me the oddest compliment. Well, it seemed odd to me.

    I recounted the highlights of my recent excursion to New Jersey and the awesome event that was Tied Down. I told her about the classes and my scene with Gray. I then explained how I didn’t allow any of the feelings I had spoil my time at the event. I waited until after to let it all out. She admired how I could be fully present for it all when an ocean of whirling emotions laid just around the bend.

    It never occurred to me that this was some skill or gift. It is just something I do, something I thought everyone did. She explained it was what she tried to do.

    When I’m in a scene, or focused on someone, I’m there and only there. I push the rest out, to the side, for another day. I lock off that corner of my thoughts, that place in my heart, promising to visit it later.

    In truth, I have to visit it later. The emotions are not present in the moment; I make sure to tuck them far below. But they start building again from the moment my interaction ends, and, if not acknowledged and processed, find their way out in quite inconvenient ways (shortened temper, easily annoyed, crying fits over nothing).

    I don’t know why I’m able to do this. DeepEnd compared my skill to one who’s dealing with the passing of an ailing loved one. The way you cherish the time you have because soon there will be no more moments.

    I don’t like the analogy, but there is truth to it. Those are the very thoughts that float through my mind in the middle of it all. I have to be here. I have to be present. Because, soon, this moment will pass and I will have lost my time if I don’t seize it fully, now.

    I have dealt with the passing of a close loved one, but I don’t think that is why I am able to do this. I was a wreck for most of that, when I wasn’t searing with anger at my family. Instead, I think my being present is more a matter of training and patience.

    Patience was ground into me through my youth. I lived in a single parent household and often had to wait for my mother to get off work before we could go home. Each day, for hours, I found things to fill my time: homework, my Walkman, writing. But, inevitably, it would boil down to me sitting by the school door, waiting for her car to approach. Just sitting and waiting.

    I learned discipline to keep myself from raging in anger or despairing in helplessness. I learned patience, knowing relief and release was close at hand. I learned to temper my wants, trained myself to be there without flashing my insides out. I learned to just be, in a sort of cross between acceptance and mediation.  

    Because it didn’t matter if I raged, or cried, or hated.  She could get there no faster and I couldn’t make time do my biding.  Therefore, why be a big ball of madness or a seeping selfish child?  

    The same holds true for scenes.  I can’t change my world in that moment, can’t change what will happen the next day or even later that evening.  But I can appreciate what I do have in those breaths.  Why not just be and leave those emotions elsewhere?

    So, now, I can just be. I can just enjoy. I can just submit to how my life is in that moment, push my rushing emotions aside, and delight in each second for what it is: special and fleeting.

  • Oral History

    I’m a bit quirky. At least that’s what I call it.

    When I go to events, I always, always, carry a few things: my cell phone, my Hello Kitty bag, a pen, and, most important of all, my notebooks. I go to many classes. When I attend a presentation, I sit front row center and take notes (Teacher’s Pet here). Periodically during the day, I take a moment to jot down bullet points on the happenings thus far.

    I do this because I want to remember everything. Everything.  I know I can’t, but I try.

    Even from my first event, I knew I needed to write about what I was going through. It was too intense, too life altering, too amazing not to chronicle. I love the story of my kinky life so much, I carry all my old notebooks with me to each new event. I currently have two small notebooks and one rather large one which holds my current pages to fill.

    Ask me about any event, and I’ll try to recall the details you need. When in doubt, though, I refer to my notebooks.

    However, my notebooks are not the end, but the means to an end.

    I use my notes from my events for my pièce de résistance, my voice memos.

    I have an iPhone and one of the lovely applications is basically a dictaphone. When I come back from each event, I sit alone in my room, pull out my notebook, and I talk. I tell myself the story of my adventure, from the little moments to the awesome experiences. I relive my ecstasy, remembering all I can, and am once again joyous because of all I went through.

    In the days following each event, when I’m a bit down, or just want to feel there again, I play my voice memos. I’ve lulled myself to sleep with my recountings, drifted away on my stories, been comforted by these experiences.

    Today, I needed to listen to one of my memos. This afternoon, when I had the house to myself, I masturbated. And then I cried. And it wasn’t the good kind of cry. It was tears of loneliness, of wanting, of pain.

    New Year’s Eve in coming up, and as a single girl there will be that magical moment when everyone else has someone to kiss. And I’ll be there, happy I’m with my friends, but a little sad. Everyone says you can’t look for love cause then you’ll never find it. You have to just wait. And I am a very patient person. But sometimes…

    And so I listened to my first day of FetFest. And I remembered writing my message in the shimenawa. And giving away the plaques to the boys. And my takedown rehearsal. And my sideways suspension with Big Bro. And the NCSF Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate fundraiser. And putting Gray to bed. And I felt better.

    I have my story, told in my voice, for me to hear. It is possibly the most personal intimate…thing I have. No one listens to it but me. I see it as my oral history, a kinky history of major moments in my life.

    So when you see me up at whatever o’clock in the morning, long past when most people have gone to bed, scribbling as fast as I can into a notebook, now you know what I’m doing and why I do it.

  • Perspective

    My mother’s best friend’s father died the day before Thanksgiving. Today was his funeral.

    I didn’t know this man. I had maybe met him once when I was a child, too young to remember the encounter, but I found myself at his signing off all the same.

    I was there for the family, with whom I am an honorary member. I grew up with the cousins, call my mother’s best friend, along with her brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles. I see them at holidays. They came to my college graduation. In most ways I am closer to them than my own blood relations.

    Though I did not know him, I saw this man’s influence in the crowd of faces who sat, quietly crying, remembering their father, grandfather, or great grandfather. He lived to the bright young age of 93. We should all be so lucky.

    As the family processed in, I found myself slipping my hand into my mother’s palm. Being witness to the ceremony of saying goodbye to a loved one makes you appreciate even more those you still have.

    This was a black funeral, which meant a few things were going to happen.

    1- Singing. There were plenty of gospel songs, including His Eye Is On The Sparrow, which is basically a cliche occurrence at black funerals.

    2- At least one, if not two, preachers/pastors/reverends were going to speak. There were lots of mentions of God, Christ, Jesus, the Savior, the Redeemer, etc.

    3- Are you saved? Everyone needs to be saved. Do you have a church home? The only way to get to heaven is through Christ… You get the drift. As one who questions her beliefs on spirituality and religion on an almost daily basis, I sat patiently waiting.

    Thankfully, the Pastor who gave the Eulogy, before he spun into his speech on number three, elicited a few chuckles from the attendees. He explained his job was to lift us up, and he seemed to do that quite well, as well as move the proceedings along at a relatively brisk pace.

    As experiences go, it could’ve been worse.

    I hadn’t been to a funeral since the death of Ella, my cousin who was more like my third parent, a few years ago. They read the same poem that I had to read after I finished her obituary: I’m Free. Seeing those words in the program made me tear up a bit.

    They say that funerals are a celebration of life rather than mourning the dead. It is very uncertain and one cannot predict what might happen. that’s the reason many people consider Making a Will earlier

    Funerals are for the living, remembering the dead and saying goodbye. As one who had no particular attachment to this man, but a deep love for his family, I hoped the day gave them some peace.

  • Pressure

    I know I put undue pressure on myself almost all the time.

    When it comes to work, there are times when I dread walking out of my front door. Recently I’ve been put in a semi-leadership position, asked to take on more responsibilities. Granted, this also means extra pay, but with the added money came added pressure for the gigs to go well.

    Starting off, it was not so bad, as they gave me solo assignments. Recently, though, I’ve been put in charge of people, the same folks who previously worked with me as same level colleagues. I dealt with my anxiety by changing my view of my work. Instead of seeing each new gig as a threat, I took them on as challenges, and many who know me well enough know I like to rise to challenges.

    In my personal life, I often heap mounds of pressure on situations. This was especially true when I first became highly active and social in the kink community. When I was just with the Ex or going to Bound Friday nights, it didn’t matter. I had little expectations. My Ex was anti-social, so any interaction with him and kink outside of the bedroom was a treat. Coming out of college and exploring the very fringes of this new world, everything was amazing.

    But, going out on my own, having been in a kinky relationship for so long, with little other gauge as to how things were, I shoveled tons of pressure on myself when I went to my first Happy Hour. I thought I had to make the best impression, I had to be the best me, or these people wouldn’t like me and there went my chance to learn and grow in kink. It wasn’t until I got there, started talking to people, and finally let myself let go that I realized adding pressure to the situation only harmed me.

    So, a few paragraphs of rambling aside, I’m writing this because even now, I still add pressure to situations that I need to relax into. I still have to remind myself to breath, let go, and give into the will of life. I still have to stop myself from adding undue pressure on almost everything. However, with much practice, my venting time has shortened, my recovery quickened, and my stress has diminished, in general, a bit.

    I’m a work in progress.

  • Comparison

    I have this nasty little habit: I look at other peoples’ lives and compare them to my own.

    Shit, let me be honest. I compare my everything to everyone else’s everything. And not just the cliche shit (body, job, car, house). I compare small things, like how jacked up my car is compared to most other vehicles on the road. I compare large things, like how my best friend is married with a child, yet I am blessedly(?) single. I compare my level of play, my style of dress, my eating and exercise habits. I compare my friend circle, my level of income, my fucking work shoes. [I’m in a cursing mood today.]

    And every time, without fail, I feel like shit. And it doesn’t matter if I’m on the “better” end of the comparison, because how the fuck can you even define what better is? Yes, I have my freedom, but my best friend created a family. Yes, that asshole’s car is beautiful, but mine is fully paid off.

    Whenever I get into one of my comparison spirals, I often yell at myself to stop. I don’t want to be that person who measures their life by the lives of others. I just want to be, and be happy right there, in that space, living in that moment.

    But for some reason it happens all the time. All the time.

    The worst part is when I compare myself to how I view myself.

    While running this morning, I glanced at my reflection in the sliding glass door in our Sun Room. I have this funny little quirk of viewing myself as smaller than my body actually is. As I’m jogging along, I see my stomach, my thighs, my ass, none of which are as I picture them. I spiral, calling myself horrible names, and pretty much cursing my ugly mug.

    But then, I looked away. I remembered the people who have called me beautiful, have taken pleasure in my body. I remembered being all dolled up and filled with glee to go out to a party. I remembered looking at myself in the mirror while I brushed my teeth that morning, the little twinkle in my ear, the rested, pleased look starting my day often gives me.

    And I remembered why I was jogging. I want to be healthy, to feel better. I wasn’t jogging to try to fit into a size 2. I was jogging because, can you believe it, I actually like it. Starting my morning listening to my music, doing something physical, getting my heart going has come to be one of my favorite parts of my day.

    It hasn’t even been two weeks, and I’m loving it. Yes, I get winded. No, it is not easy, but that’s part of the fun too, overcoming the challenge. Every time I step onto that treadmill, with every step I take, I am that much closer to my goal, as ambiguous as it is.

    And that’s what quieted my comparison spiral this morning, knowing that how I look now is not how I’ll look in a year, six months, fuck a month from today.

    The secondary goal of this little experiment of mine is for me to translate those positive thoughts surrounding my jogging into the rest of my thinking, especially whenever I fall into that hole, looking at others’ lives and viewing mine through their lens. Because I will not be single forever. My car will not always be scarred. My life now is not how it will be ten months, weeks, or even minutes from this moment.

    I am ever changing. I must stop comparing and begin embracing, whatever my life happens to look like in the next moment.