Goodbye, Bruce Lee.
Yesterday was the last day of Martial Arts for the kids.
The kids have been going to Martial Arts class two times a week for two years, which means I have been going to Martial Arts class two times a week for two years.
I have loved it in ways I didn’t know I could love a sport.
My lineage isn’t entirely athletic, even though my dad was on a softball team for a million years, and I technically did play on a softball team called the Sprouts, which was officially the worst softball team in the league. Although, I don’t know if throwing a 4th grader into left field for 2 years really counts as “playing on a softball team” but I was there, and I have the picture to prove it.
I look exactly the same. Maybe a little bigger now. But that’s debatable.
The origins of our Martial Arts experience began after we were done with one season of a homeschooling group.
If you think I am cut out for a group of (very nice) suburban homeschooling moms, you are sorely mistaken. They are all very nice. Lovely kids. Very boring. Not my type.
I remember the last day of that homeschool group. It was supposed to be a half day of presentations from all the age groups, and some awards…and it just never ended. We got there at 9am, and around 1pm I had had quite enough of the self-congratulatory celebration; So we took off halfway through the final day of their never-ending deal and went home, never to return.
After that I wanted to find something that would train the kids with more than self-contratulatory nonsense, and something a little more worthwhile. Something that encouraged self-responsibility, self-motivation, honoring and respecting your team and enforced memorization.
Martial Arts was perfect.
For the past 2 years, it was perfect. It was everything I didn’t know it could be. It was fantastic for the kids, and it was 2 hours of a break for me.
But those days are over. Goodbye, Bruce Lee.
So, thanks to life and moving and planning and laundry and homeschool and breathing and blinking…I’m just worn out right now. At least today I am. Yesterday I was kind of okay, but the day before (whatever day that was) I was on top of the world. Everything was great, and I could accomplish anything I set my mind to!
Lately I have my ups and downs in wild swings, which I usually don’t fall prey to. In general, I am a confident, modern, even-tempered American woman. Nothing sways me but moving trains, and even then they stop for me. I am in control of my destiny! Carpe Diem! Pax Tamarahicana!
Somehow, the impending “moving our family out of state within the next few weeks” can creep up on you and smother your Pax Tamarahicana like a soaked down comforter.
and when I am up and things are totally good! I get a lot of writing finished, I am optimistic about the future, and overall things go well. I laugh easily, I make interesting dinners and I am great at conversation at night.
That is generally what happens when things are up.
When things are down, I can’t even figure out how to put on my shoes without breaking down.
*sob* “Maybe I need slip on shoes that are easier to put on.” *sob* “I can’t handle these laces, because I just know they are going to come undone at some point, and it is so hard to bend over and tie them.” *sob* “Maybe I need boots….EXCEPT I HAD BOOTS AND THEY WERE LEFT OUTSIDE DURING THE ENTIRE WINTER BEHIND A BOX, AND NOW THE SOLES PEELED OFF. I CAN’T EVEN HAVE BOOTS.”
Last night Ben saved me and brought home KFC. It was the greasiest, most bland potatoey meal with 110% awesome coleslaw (no gravy for the Celiac 😦 )…that filled my soul with rest. I didn’t have to clean up after dinner and I didn’t have to worry about anything except degreasing fingers before people left the kitchen. That KFC dinner was the best part of my day. It was rest, and I needed that.
Listen. Most of the time it is the little things that break you. The big things you can work with, find solutions, feel like you accomplished something when you recover. But the little things add up like little, suffocating, poisonous molehills that you can’t sweep away entirely. There is always some little granules of sand that linger and keep wearing you down.
It is generally the little things that get’cha in the end.
My advice for blogging has always been: if you can’t write, edit.
I think that is awesome advice. I wish I could pitch this advice, it is so good.
In my Post section, I currently have 64 Drafts sitting there. 64 Drafts. Just waiting to be edited and published.
This is what happens when I look at any of my Drafts:
Somehow, I am sure it was a good idea at some point, otherwise I wouldn’t have written it down. Maybe I am just being overly critical, and I should give this idea another chance? Listen, write it out. Get some ideas on the page. Make an outline with supporting bits and create something. You’re a writer! You can do this!
Yet, the more you write, the more disgusted you are with your ideas.
This is junk. This is horrible. You need to stop writing and move on, my friend.
Most of the time, this is what I have to force myself to do. Let go of crazy ideas and let them wither and die and never write about them. For the greater good.
It is better to have quality writing than tripe. Says the woman who still hasn’t published a novel (it’s almost done!!).
So, it is Friday night.
I am worn out. February looms over me like an albatross. As a writer, on a Friday night, the weekend of the Superbowl, I am obligated to make a wise decision that will save the integrity of my writing.
/Goodbye, Bruce Lee.