jackoftrades

     I had just finished a grueling Monday morning workout, where the only gruel was getting out of bed and convincing myself that this workout thing was necessary, even though I was uncomfortable and bloated and lethargic. I ran the water, praying for a miraculous transformation from the cleansing shower, or at the very least a jolt into awakened motivation. Maybe it landed somewhere in between, but at least I felt I washed the grunge off from the weekend affairs, the riveting fun outrageous affairs of the weekend, the affairs that leave me empty but full, uncomfortable in my own skin, the morning after drinks and food and late nights, a tempting lifestyle, but laced with a lingering pursuit of beating the feelings its masking. As I drive to the gym, racing to beat the traffic, my mind wanders into that creative space full of images of bodies moving in geometric sequences, my body dancing through the unique combination of exercises, the creation of new movements to challenge my body, new variations, and just as I’m about to lose myself in the after feel of what this amazing workout will bring, reality slaps me in the face. I hit a block. That workout might be too tough. You might not want to work that hard. You should save your energy. Store it. What if it hurts? I want it to hurt. I want my body to feel that shit. I want my body to suffer, for being so out of control, for not fitting into a particular designated appropriate clothing size. I want to punish you body for never feeling good. I hate you for not letting me get away from you or out of you. But then I feel a piece of me that doesn’t want you to hurt. For you to feel good. To move in ways that nourish and don’t torture. The gym has become my battleground. The love hate hate love relationship is overwhelming. Sometimes I can’t bring myself to go there and other times I couldn’t crave anything more. The relationship is exhausting. Waking up each morning not knowing how I am going to feel about you gym. How much energy will be needed just to get out the door. How much motivation will I have to muster? Or will I rise up like a spring chicken eager to run and frolic and sweat and flap. The dilemma seems to always remain, I want to get out of my body, this body, and so I workout to promote and encourage that change, but I want to love a body, I want to get out of my head and feel fully sensated by the adrenaline rush and burn and twitch facilitated through lifting heavy weights or moving gracefully in dance. My hands remained tied. I feel bloated with tension. I feel abandoned by direction, intuition. I feel pulled around on a string like a puppet, monkey see monkey do bullshit, to go go go then stop stop stop, to start to stop, to be on then off, to go everyday, to go not at all. If you are passionate about anything there is no such thing as balance. Yes I feel you wanting me to say I need balance. I don’t believe that to be true. I need to know what it is that I really want. I can rely on moments of inspiration backed by discipline to get me through something I am truly passionate about, but what if I don’t know my truest most organic passion? What if I’m in a desperate search, one I feel that has no end- resolution- or answer? I am left with emptiness, a craving I can’t satisfy, and this repetitive lack of satiation leaves me bracing and expecting instead of committing, jumping all in, not holding back. I am half assing and half committing because I don’t truly love it, is that it? The jack of all trades syndrome. So good truly good at so many things, but never great. When effort needs to exceed talent, I bail. When discipline is running away without inspiration, I deflate. When I’m not instantly gratified for my beginnings and small triumphs, I avoid. When it’s hard and I run the risk of looking like a complete fool I don’t give it my all and end up in a bucket of frustration that I can’t kick over.  When my progression is slow, hardly noticeable, like the grass growing, or water drying, I quit. I wave the white flag. I rebel. And so the pendulum shifts to the next. But in this ferocious shit storm of swinging pendulums I feel sadness, deep grieving, intertwined with freedom and a finger up, a rebellious flair, yet one that crashes and burns. The freedom I know is limited for I know I will always put the collar back on and lead myself back into the kennel. A slave to the leash, a leash held by whom. A leash labeled should.