I skipped the gym this weekend. Slept in on Saturday. Read books about football at a coffee shop and learned how to edit the CSS on my blog. Didn’t write anything that wasn’t code or text messages to friends. We ate ice cream and pizza. Watched TV.
And I was okay with everything.
Didn’t make up any stories about failure or wasting time. Didn’t try to assign meaning to food consumed or hours spent sitting, spent sleeping. We were playful and our apartment dripped with laughter. Kisses exchanged during lulls in the storyline. Shoulder rubs traded between trips to get another cup of coffee.
It’s been five days since I last felt hopeless. Since I felt the need to curl my knees into my chest and squeeze tight enough to shut myself completely. Existing hasn’t been hurting and that’s exciting. I’ve been catching myself humming.
The laziness of the weekend didn’t get a grasp on Monday morning. I bounced out of bed and made my way to yoga class. No griping about messing anything up. No mumbling about how I should have done something different.
Waiting for the tightness to creep into my chest. To whisper that I need to start preparing. Nothing smooth can last. We’re all bound to slip again. The impermanence of joy, of ease, of comfort. But instead I take another breath and ask, “Why should that matter?”
It’s easy now. Just let it be.