I am not the world's best timekeeper. I honestly have no concept of time. I tell my husband that I need twenty minutes to finish an assignment for school and an hour has passed and the finish is nowhere in sight. I can wake up two hours earlier than normal and still be late for work. I don't know the real reason but I have guesses. I like "moments". You know when you're watching a movie and the director has added that one look or that one touch that just makes you sigh out loud. Or in a book when you re-read a paragraph and nod that's exactly what the characters would/should do. I catch myself waiting for that perfect moment in my life to begin something, to complete something...to do almost anything. And you know what? Those "moments" don't happen because I was so desperate to time the perfect moment that I let it slip by unknown never feeling that confirmation of perfection. And once the "moment" is passed I feel like I am off the hook. Oh well, it would have been an amazing moment I'll just have to wait for that next opportunity. This makes me a dreamer, a quitter, a liar, and morbidly obese. (I hate that definition , it just makes it sound so...morbid ;)
A dreamer because I am always planning and fantasizing a life that isn't happening. A quitter because I give up the idea if the perfect details are not in place. A liar because I convince myself it's okay that I missed this chance, another chance will come again. And morbidly obese because I allow myself to become comfortable in waiting and not doing. I calm myself with these rationalizations, dreams, lies, fantasies, and allow myself to sit back. This healthfull journey has to be uncomfortable. Not because I love to be uncomfortable, but because comfort is something I know too well. I can't expect different results if I continue to live my same ol' comfortable life.
Oh I have excuses galore right now (I know them by heart as I repeat them daily, almost hourly). I just had a baby. I'm overtired. My schedule is jam packed. I am trying to do to much, I can't do it all. Yadda blah blah blah!
And who am I hurting? Me. I try to justify my actions but it is me who is missing out on my own life. It's me who doesn't want to take pictures with my son because of how I feel about how I look. It's me who at a restaurant calculates which is the better bet a booth where the table and seat may be too close or chairs that might not be so sturdy. It's me carrying what equals a teenager of extra weight or a Miss America. It's me that is missing fun because of the limitations I place on my weight and that I allow my weight to place on me.
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