The Things I
Do and Don’t
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A couple
thousand years ago, somebody famous, broadly paraphrased, said, we do things we
know aren’t good for us (or for others) and don’t do the things we know to be
good.
Well, what
can I say? The shoe fits. Oh, I can always say more. Not only do I do what’s
not good for me, but I lie to myself and convince myself that it doesn’t really
matter.
I’ve worked
hard at catching myself and changing my mind before rip-roaring into action.
About forty years of hard work. And it is hard work. No floating about on a
pink cloud for me. Dang it. But I still am quite capable of stabbing myself in
the foot, so to speak, and convincing myself it doesn’t really hurt as I bleed
out on the floor.
For example,
take physical therapy. I mean, take it. You can have it.
Despite my
disparaging attitude, I’m a master student of PT. I’ve had six major surgeries
on my legs, the resulting damage from a car crash when I was a mere
young’un. After each surgery, I
underwent the tortures of physical therapy with master craftsmen. These men
were good.
I was bad.
Once I got to where I could function relatively well and they released me out
into the wide world, I asked each of them, “How long should I keep up the
exercises?” Each time I asked, I hoped for a different answer. Each time, the
reply was the same, “For the rest of your life.” Each time, as soon as the
therapist released me from servitude, I quit the routines.
Until this
last time. I reasoned that this surgery gave me a new life and I’d best take
care of myself. So after a few weeks of therapy when the current plague ramped
up, I released the therapist but kept up the routines, even increasing the
repetitions of each exercise. Atta Girl!
Until one
day, after more than a year into my routine, I quit, without conscious thought.
Truly, I never made a decision to quit. I’m not sure when this happened, maybe
January, February. The routine wasn’t hard. It didn’t even take that much of my
time, certainly not too much time in a Covid world in which I struggle to fill
my days with tasks meaningful to myself.
Here’s where
the lies come in, right? I still feel good, I tell myself. I don’t miss the
routine, boring, or at least, mindless. Weeks passed. I seldom thought about my
old morning pattern. When I did, I continued to say to myself, lying like a
rug, I feel good. See, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m okay. I’m fine.
I have no explanation
for what happened recently. One morning I was lying in bed, my new morning
routine, listening to the birdsong, greeting the morning, accompanied by the
shrill cacophony of the cicadas.
And just
like that, for no discernable reason, I began to do the leg lifts. Did a couple
sets, in fact. I had given this no conscious thought; didn’t think about it at
all. Just started in on my physical therapy routine, greatly surprising myself.
Humph, I said to myself. Wonder what that was all about?
Next morning
I did the same, repetition without thought. Now, I may lie to myself but I
won’t lie to you. I haven’t continued with the
entire-whole-every-single-exercise-physical-therapy routine. Just the leg
lifts, which are the hardest and what I dreaded the most. Oh, and one other
thing I do that Miguel said is good for blood circulation which I had never
quit. That’s it. Two out of a half-dozen simple exercises.
And so it
goes. Maybe it’s the new me. I’ve only racked up a few mornings so far. But, I
have to confess, I feel good. I feel better. And this time, I don’t tell big
porkies to myself.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 3, 2021
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