Adults disagree on quite a few things: What political party to vote for, what to make for dinner, and if wearing mismatched socks is, in fact, acceptable (I vote yes). But one thing that adults are in unanimous agreement about, is that past that eighteenth birthday, time seems to double speed. What we think is five minutes of farmville-ing is actually five hours. Okay, that's way more than doubling, but you get my point. Besides, you're an adult, get off that virtual farm. We squeeze every second out of grabbing coffee with a friend and acting insane off of said caffeine high, because we know the next 23 hours of that day will consist of the usual paying bills, doing laundry, and hiding evidence that you rummaged through the chocolate drawer again. So much of our time is spent doing things for other people, and while that's very new Grinch-esque ("his heart grew three sizes that day"), I know I can see time slipping through my fingers--not literally of course; most clocks are far too big to slip through anyone's fingers--and I feel pressure to set aside an hour or so just to hibernate in my room and do my own thing. Perhaps this is part of my secret wish to act more European and not be surrounded by people 24/7, or I just read too much Calvin & Hobbes as a kid. I don't know.
I was talking to a co-worker yesterday, and he encouraged me to take up running, or just to try a marathon. I almost took it as an insult at first; was it really that obvious that me and the freshman 15 were becoming more than just pals? But he went on to say, "I don't run for anyone else, not my wife, my son--I run for myself." I'm not about to make my lungs and heart scream bloody murder to get that runner's high people get after a bajillion miles, but that statement made me think about why I journal and do yoga. Sure, it's fun to see my friends' stricken reactions when they take my diary hostage and realize the insanity that is my brain, but that's not the main point of scribbling down every "I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm happy and sad at the same time" moment (hey, I'm a girl. Don't judge). Sometimes, emotions that stay in your head can feel like scrambled eggs. I don't know about you, but I'm not a fan of scrambled eggs. I'm much more into omelets. Journaling provides omeletet-ish emotions. Either that, or it makes me really hungry for eggs. I'm not sure which. Plus, since my memory is about the same quality as Dory's from Finding Nemo, it's nice to have something to look back at and say, "oh, that's when I wore nothing but sparkles in middle school and got the shit kicked out of me." Good times.
As for yoga, you could say I do that for other people, and you would agree if you witnessed my moods after two weeks of being sorely lacking in a practice. If someone takes the last piece of cake, in my yoga-less state, my reaction might be somewhere along the lines of "CURSE YOU ALL! ALL THE CAKE IN THE WORLD WILL BE MINE!" And then I have nothing sweet to drown my sorrows in. After an hour on the mat, I would breathe through the lack of dessert, the ten piles of homework due the next day, and facing the enemies I just made through screaming at them about cake domination. So in that sense, that weird bendy thing I'm doing on the lawn is for you. Insert wink here. But really--for the sake of all our sanity--let me do that weird bendy thing. Sometimes, it doesn't take much to calm down and feel like a person again, but that hour of "me" time--whether it be hauling your butt up a hill, or whining about how much your legs hurt after hiking said hill--shouldn't evoke guilt. Yes, we all have obligations, and I'm in no way advocating not caring about other people. But in the meantime, take some time to chillax. It's a quality thing to do.
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