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It’s Working Out

  • Posted on March 3, 2013 at 12:04 pm

heartAnd so am I.

Getting up at 4:30 isn’t easy. What’s easy is shutting off the alarm and going back to sleep for another three hours. But I’m done being easy (that doesn’t sound right). I’ve been dragging my saggy butt out of bed. Once I have coffee, I’m good to go, and once I’m at the gym and in class, I enjoy myself (really).

Fortunately, my fear of getting nauseas working out in the morning hasn’t manifested (that’s not just a fear—embarrassingly, I almost fainted during a 6:00 a.m. group workout about a year ago). Now, after only a week of consistency, I’m feeling good. I’m feeling stronger.

roseThis morning in Step class, from my vantage point at the back of the room, I could see a tattoo of a thorny red rose on the back of the ankle of the girl in front of me. Her tattoo was visible because her pants were three-quarter length and her socks were completely inside her sneakers (I wasn’t sure she even had socks on because it looked like she had a blister underneath her tattoo—but that’s besides the point). I wonder if she struggled with the decision to put something permanently on her body.

 I wish I was brave enough to get a tattoo. I’ve designed it in my head—the infinity symbol, looped together by a strand of fresh water pearls—the idea being something tangible from the ocean, from water, the source of life, together with the intangible, with forever.

If I wasn’t afraid (of what, though?), I’d get that tattoo. I wish I could decide where—not where I’d get it, as in which tattoo parlor or from which tattoo artist (California would be the perfect place, don’t you think?). But where on my body I would put it—the outside of one of my ankles, maybe, but right or left? On a shoulder? I’d worry, then, about my sons, or worse, my mother, seeing it. And what if I had an evening affair to attend, where the guests were conservative and judgmental? I’m not sure how I feel when I see a woman at a black tie affair, skimpy little black dress, dangling earrings, spiky black heels, standing among other little black dresses or floor length gowns, champagne flute in hand, and then, on the ankle or back of the neck, visible because of an up-do, a butterfly tattoo or red rose or blue letters spelling something in Japanese. (Not that I hang out at black tie affairs, but you know what I mean.)

I’m not sure how I feel. I wish I didn’t wonder about it, wish it didn’t matter. I wish it wasn’t about having the guts, or the balls if I had those, to do something unconventional.

I can see my tattoo, a string of fresh water pearls tinged with pink, swirling around my right ankle, testimony to my infinite courage.