Marching On

Hello, I'm back. Did you miss me?
Well, true to form, it's been a long time since I've written. Four years, actually.

Yep. FOUR.  1,460 days. 35,040 hours. 3,650 cups of coffee. Four years isn't just a pregnant pause. It's a preschooler. It's a presidential term. It's a bachelor's degree. You would think I'd just call it a day. I've stopped so many times and for so long I should have just deleted the site and stopped. It's kind of pathetic, actually, this ridiculous pattern that I've done as long as I remember.

But here's the thing: if you stop entirely, then that's it. You've stopped. You are done. You ain't doin' it no more. You are not moving in a forward direction. You are not moving in a backwards direction. You are not moving. Do not bother to find socks without holes in the toes. You need them no more. Do not bother to shave your underarms, nobody cares. Do not renew your AAA subscription, your car is not leaving the driveway. Do not tell the post office to hold your mail. You are going absolutely no place at all. Give away your umbrella, your days of singing in the rain are over.

And even though I am THE WORST PROCRASTINATING BLOGGER ON THE EARTH, I am not done blogging. Or assorted other things that I am also not done with. Not done climbing ladders to put ornaments on completely overgrown Christmas trees. Not done drinking 8 glasses of water a day, intermittently, with frequent weeks of forgetting entirely, then binge drinking on a Tuesday until my day is just trips back and forth to the bathroom. Not done reading self-help books that assure me that if I just purchase a planner, twelve different colored Sharpies and a box of Post-its I can organize my thoughts and write that million-copy-best-seller-self help book, assuring others that if they just purchase my planner and twelve different colored Sharpies, they too could transcend their place in the universe.

I'm not done taking chances with questionable hair colors. Or learning how to tweet. Or buying yet another yoga mat because I lost the one that I bought last time to replace the one that dried out and turned into a flaky tube of purple rubber shavings.

I am not done with bike riding. Now, of course, it's a racing trike. With a reclining seat. Stop laughing. It's a legitimate thing. Trikes race, dammit.

I am not done with marching for causes. Not done signing petitions. Not done eating ice cream, them regretting it, then not. Not done blending my own essential oils, then forgetting where I put them, then blending them again. I am not done with wondering if my husband thinks I'm still pretty. Or whether these jeans make my butt look big. Not done buying Spanx.

I'm not done blogging, or marching to my own teeny, weird little drum.

And I suppose that's the best thing I can say about myself so far. I wait, I flounder, I forget, I get distracted, or depressed, or unmotivated, or just plain lazy. I fall asleep. But eventually, I wake up. Then I start marching again. Tap tappity tap goes the tiny drum. Tappity tap. Thunk. (That's when I drop the mallet and it rolls under the kitchen table.) Tap.

I don't even know why I'm writing this. I guess it's to remind myself that as long as there is breath and an eventual need to pee, I still have the ability to move. To breathe something new. To change. To write. To grow. To fail. To succeed. To see what the next day will bring, and say thanks.

To march on.