I’m bitter because, like Strayed, I have demons. This isn't really a spoiler, but be alerted nonetheless: Cheryl Strayed develops severe issues with drug use and adultery in her 20s after the traumatic death of her mother, then tries to heal through taking a grueling, extensive trek by herself.
I had the urge to put my job on hiatus and shop at REI, because those are the two easiest, fun parts.
But if I run 3 miles one day, two days later I will be flu-level wiped out for a week or more. Which my angsty brain slurps up as an indication that I’m weak in character or body or both, and that I can’t do anything with my life. And then I can barely even slither my way to work, let alone run a race, and why did I kid myself into feeling free as the wind when where I really belong is with Netflix?
It’s not like Shelby in "Steel Magnolias" or anything, but my limits are more than eager to present themselves whenever I get a little excited about doing something physically impressive. Like "American Ninja Warrior," or even pruning the bushes in my yard on a bad week.
I’ve never been one for patience or moderation. But I also haven’t given up yet, despite the vast amounts of medical tests, surgeries, doctor's appointments and statements of benefit that come with IBD. And I'm still hopeful that each new day, month, year might leave me feeling better. So I guess I’m reluctantly training for patience by default (in lieu of a 5k). And in the meantime, there are plenty of ways to be mildly wild, like using designer luxury toilet paper, sleeping in ridiculously late on the weekends, or installing an enormous TV in your bathroom.