I am absolutely the cerebral type. My chief residence has always been in my head with occasional get-away visits to my heart on weekends, holidays and when I'm running away from consequence. The heart is a great place to retreat to when the oppression of trying to do everything right becomes overbearing. It's a great place to find solace, as well, once you've realized you've done most of them wrong.
But lately I've been logging increasingly more hours on that damned elliptical in distracted and exhausting animation; galloping away like an old mare that has been stabled too long but still has enough wind left to course that open landscape one more time.
Or so she believes.
Lord, I sound like I'm dying. My mother was alarmed at the title of my very first blog post for the same reason. She said, "What do you mean A First Glimpse of the Final Inning? It sounds so, well, final. Is everything alright?"
Of course, everything isn't "alright," which is the reason I write at all. If I had succeeded in finding perfect happiness, I would be out there enjoying it!
As it is now, I am able to function only after having established a sort of psycho/spiritual detente by employing my penchant for writing and my compulsion for being perpetually occupied and engaged. Whatever sodden regrets and garden-variety failures I harbor now graciously give me time off for psychotic behavior as long as I keep telling their stories, and, unfortunately, I've got plenty of them.
However, if my workout sessions become anymore compulsive and lengthy, I might have to renegotiate the terms to include physical rehabilitation as well as heavy doses of mood-altering pharmaceuticals.
I don't know how it happens exactly. I begin my routine with the same peevish reluctance and determination to do just the bare minimum ostensibly to avoid becoming overly bored; but after about fifteen minutes, I find I'm no longer in charge.
Once those sweat glands commence production and the adrenaline and dopamine levels have lifted the veil of my resistance, I retreat to my mind and become like a battle-ready femme-fatal consort to the Titans or the true descendant of Cynisca of Sparta, who was the first woman champion of the Olympics and, ironically, the first woman to breed horses.
I wonder if she dealt with a lot of old, gray mares?
By the time I have either returned to planet earth or have physically exhausted myself to the extent that pain is registering between my beleaguered left knee and my consciousness, I'll have been at it for nearly two hours with my hair and clothing being almost as wet as if I'd just swam the Channel.
This may not seem like a big deal to any of those fit and stalwart souls who regularly pound out hours in marathon runs over hill and dale; but I don't come even remotely close to either that level of physical perfection nor the mind-boggling endurance capacity it takes to accomplish such feats.
The closest to 'athletic' that I have ever been was managed in my youth when I spent my all of my summers swimming competitively on the team at Winged Foot Golf Club. And that came only out of a need to impress my father who had been a swimmer and diver in his own youth; racking up medals at The Larchmont Shore Club, Deerfield Academy and Dartmouth College. Not only was he a gifted athlete but a privileged, highly-educated intellect as well, which, upon meeting him is immediately evident to this very day.
Looking back, I'm not sure what I hoped to gain by my soggy efforts. I was a great swimmer, however, educationally my name and the word remedial were synonymous.
So, even though I did manage to intimidate myself enough to become one of the top two female swimmers in my age group every summer, the whole mis-fitted endeavor also induced an horrific intestinal backlash producing gut-twisting stomach aches before each competition; a condition that continued to manifest throughout my entire life whenever a situation arose where I was expected to "best" someone else.
To find myself at midlife squarely centered in this bohemian den of self-imposed exile should come as no surprise.
But right now I have to reload the big guns of fraternization and prepare to meet eight people for dinner, only two of whom I know, and I can feel the familiar intestinal tensing mount in apprehension of the event.
From my perspective, as a life-long casualty of bewildering filial defections, the idea of opening myself up to a whole new gaggle of potential assailants is terrifying, but I am doing my damnedest to put aside my anxiety and defensive posture and let in what or whomever is curious or desperate enough to think of my company as a worthwhile adventure.
When it comes right down to it, everything in life is a bit of a sport, although the only really worthwhile competition is with oneself. I just have to remain conditioned, do my very best and remember to be gracious with myself when I lose and not boastful when I come out on top. Oh brother.
