Stories.

I tell a lot of stories about myself.

Not long stories — they’re usually just one sentence, a few words to box myself up in a small, easy-to-grasp package.

For example:  I have issues with food.  I’m shy.  I don’t look good in green.  People make me nervous.  I’m not musical.  I’m not very funny.  I exercise too much.  I’m not good at sports.  I don’t have any real talents.

It’s so damned appealing, this summing one’s self up.  It feels orderly and neat, and it’s what people expect, a sound-bite biography.  It gives information but spares any messy, burdensome intimacy.  And really, these stories become so easy to tell after the first hundred or so times; it stops mattering whether or not they’re true.

But that’s the thing. These stories don’t stay true.  I’m not all of my stories on any given day; some of them I haven’t been in years.

For example, part II: I don’t have issues with food — I eat normally and that clashes with all the messages that say I shouldn’t.  And I’m not shy — I’m just not gregarious.

And I don’t have a damn clue if I’m good at sports since I haven’t played any since elementary school, and honestly?  I bet I’d be decent at some of them these days since I now have coordination and good endurance, two things 10-year-old Megan lacked.

And I have lots of talents; they’re just not necessarily the ones that spring to mind, like singing or dancing or painting or what-have-you.  I can cut out anything you can think of with scissors; my line-dancing-turkey paper dolls are legendary.  I bake awesome molasses cookies.  I give the best nicknames.  These aren’t exactly talent-show material, but hey, they’re still pretty cool.

So, what’s my point?  It’s this: I want to give up my stories.  They’re holding me back; those sentences create paths that I’m hesitant to step from.  They give me excuses not to try.  I want to stop telling the stories because it makes me live them and that makes them true.

And I want a bigger life than that.

And as for the story about not being musical?  Hell, that’s just because I hated piano lessons when I was 8. 

We’ll see if that one’s true when my banjo gets delivered next week.

I’m pretty because I say so.

So, I blew off two (count ‘em, TWO!) workouts this week.  One was today’s workout — I’m going to a play tonight and am incredibly lazy and didn’t want to shower and re-fix my hair before I could go out again.  But the other time?  Well, that’s the fun one.   I skipped out on Monday’s five-miler to spend my evening shopping like it was my job.

I bought stacks of clothes.  Piles.  Heaps, if you will.  Mostly shirts, because, well, pants are trickier, but after it all was over?  I have actual choices hanging in my closet.  Not just four pairs of capri pants, one pair of jeans, and 95 t-shirts.

Every day since then, I’ve worn something adorable.  And my hair has started looking extra-sassy because I finally sprang for grown-up hair products instead the equivalent of bar soap.  And you know the secret to looking freakin’ awesome?

Thinking you look freakin’ awesome.

Yeah, everyone probably already knows this.  But I’m a girl who rarely strings together two or more “freakin’ awesome” days.  I usually feel presentable, passable, not offensive to the eye (at least not from a respectable distance), but to feel pretty?  And to have it be simply because I treated myself like I was a pretty girl, a girl worth effort?

Well, that’s a heck of a thing to know.

Of course, I know I’m lucky.  I had a small windfall this month that didn’t have to go towards other expenses so I had some extra cash for these indulgences, but even the free stuff I was inspired to do as I felt prettier (things like putting on good lotion or putting on a favorite necklace) also made me feel glow-ier, and I think that had just as much of an effect as the new duds.

So, that’s the secret.  You’re pretty if you think you are.  And if you think you are?  Well, what everyone else thinks pretty much stops mattering.

Runaway.

There’s something in my nature that has always made me disappear when things get too hard.  It’s not that I like to abandon things; it’s more that I don’t trust myself to be able to work hard enough to get past or over them. So I just kind move slowly toward the nearest exit and then dash out the back.  Believe me, it makes me a totally awesome wife, sister, daughter, and friend.  I’m the Houdini of all my relationships.

I think I’m kind of a Houdini-blogger, too.  Back in May, I was seriously floundering and a few comments left me feeling vulnerable and attacked, and I decided this was Too Hard.  I didn’t need to make my journey a public thing if it was going to hurt more than it helped.  I wasn’t trying to be a role model or anything, not trying to achieve Poster Girl status — I’m just a woman who wanted a place to hold herself accountable.  But if it didn’t feel safe anymore?  Well, I huffed to myself, it’s not like I’m getting paid for this.  I can switch back to a regular ol’ notebook.

So, I did.  I wrote stuff.  I went to the doctor.  I ran.  I got bloodwork done.  I bought new pants because my other pants felt too snug and made me anxious.  I ate homegrown tomatoes.  I graduated to 15 lb. weights for my biceps curls.  I perfected my Sea Breeze.  I napped.

And even in the midst of all that life-living, I missed my little blog here.  I missed the introspection, the Examined-Life quality it gave to my experiences.  I missed how honest it forced me to be with myself.

Here’s a happy thing: I ran 7.5 miles yesterday at my preferred pace and probably could have run a few more, so strong my lungs and legs felt.  My upper-body strength is back and I feel all kick-ass and powerful when I’m working out.  These are good things.  These things make me proud of my body and what it can do.

And here’s a hard thing:  My weight continues its inexorable creep upwards and while my bloodwork all says “Normal!” I cannot quite shake the feeling something is malfunctioning in my body.  The weight gain is unexplainable, seemingly unrelated to my lifestyle, and it’s challenging my self-image in a way I haven’t experienced before.  The weight gain of ending my diet was expected because I wasn’t starving myself any longer, but this weight gain?  Unexpected and confusing.

I don’t mind being heavier.  I just would like to know my body isn’t broken.

So, here I am.  Stronger, faster, somewhat fatter, and taking care of myself the best way I know how.  And it’s nice to be back.

Thank you to those commenters who left notes checking on me!  I appreciate it!