I ran this post a year or two back.  What with the cheese, Guinness, and chocolate cake I’ve been facing day after day here in Ireland–serious temptations, particularly when presented by hospitable friends and neighbors–I thought I could use a little reminder.  Perhaps you could too.

 

Sometimes we get tired and don’t want to have to try anymore. We want to be loved and appreciated, just for being the decent human being we are.  

Which is exactly how I felt the year of the salmon-colored capris.

It had been one hell of a season.  I’d spent two and a half years sitting shiva as my ex-husband battled terminal colon cancer. (You’d be surprised how quickly the resentment surrounding a divorce clears up when one of you is handed a death sentence.)

There were the fluorescent-lit hospital visits.  And carting kids back and forth each weekend so he wouldn’t have to drive the hour to get them. And the marathon and the Century bike race I trained for, so I wouldn’t have the energy or the time to feel what I so desperately did not want to feel.  There were the family vacations—fraught with guilt and sadness—designed to give our two young children something wonderful to remember him by. And the never-ending emotional roller coaster one experiences when watching a person—a good man I once loved—suffer like a bitch.  And the kids.  Oh, the kids.  There are things in life; I am here to tell you, that you just can’t save them from.

After he died, there were three people’s therapy appointments.  And the full-time job.  And the writing classes at Harvard. And the myriad of responsibilities one has to manage—without shooting oneself— as a single mother.

It took about a year after his death for the weight of it all to hit me.

A body in motion, by the way, continues to stay in motion for a surprisingly long time. 

I was in great physical shape. But, without space, I was an emotional basket case.

Then one day I went from 120 mph to nearly a full dead stop.

I quit my job.

My running trickled to a slow two miles every three days. I stopped paying attention to what I ate and I gained thirty pounds.  I popped out of my clothes and bought a pair of cheerful, salmon-colored capris, which I proceeded to wear everywhere I went.

I watched movies with my kids, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  I read novels all day long on the couch.  I’d get my son off to school, then head back to bed to snooze. I took lots of long, hot baths. And sat and stared out the window.

I had space.  Emotionally I felt strong.  Physically, however, I was a blob.

When I lifted my head up one sunny morning I decided it was time to date. I joined Match.com.

I browsed the profiles for potential lovers and found myself disgusted by what many men seemed to want.

One man, I remember this oh so well, was looking for a “high maintenance woman.”  Someone who took care of her nails, wore the latest fashions, pampered herself with spa treatments, and owned her “hotness.”

I thought, who the fuck is this jerk?  Why would anyone want, let alone advertise for, a woman so self-centered?  I was someone who had put her life on hold to take care of her dying ex-husband, to provide triage for her wounded children, and I was going to HARVARD, and here was Schmoe talking about lipstick and highlights?!

Wearing my capris, I sputtered in indignation. There was nothing about me that this complete stranger would even like. I was low-maintenance, and damn proud of it.  And self-sacrificing.  And I had a lot to say about Wuthering Heights.

And yet.

Deep down inside, I realized I’d fallen into horrible disrepair.  I was so far gone, so addicted to comfort and letting it all hang out, that it would take an army to get me back up to speed. I didn’t want to have to work at it. Not the way I’d done.

True to the laws of motion, a body at rest stays at rest, unless acted upon by an outside force.

To save myself the effort, I began to date an under-employed yoga instructor.

A man with very few prospects, I figured, would have no right to complain about my shortcomings.

But complain he did. He had a lot to say about the capris, the lack of makeup, the extra weight, and my defensiveness. He wasn’t impressed by my martyrdom story.

I gave him the boot. In a very long, drawn out, Ann-like way.

I figured recommitting to myself would take a lot less effort, and cause me far less pain.

And here’s what else I learned from the year I let myself go:

1. Even an underdog turns his nose up at a woman—no matter how kind, smart, and giving—–who dismisses her self and her appearance.
2. If you perceive a weakness in yourself, others will pick up on it and run with it.
3. There is a happy medium between all or nothing; between going full bore and becoming one with the couch.
4. The laws of attraction are not fair.  But neither is gravity.
5. We need the space to be emotionally healthy AND we need to focus on physical fitness.
6. It’s okay to be tired.  It’s okay to need a break.  But eventually you have to wake up and get back to work.
7. This is not about pretty.  You can’t bank on pretty.

And the capris?  They had to go.