I was a senior, just eighteen and headed to college the next fall. Dressed in my most "professional" garb for the interview, I must have looked like a five-year-old dressed in her mommy's high heels. At the very least, I walked into the office that way. My stomach was churning, nervous tears were held behind a wall of "hold yourself together", and I briefly debated citing a stomach bug as retreat.
My body and I, we haven't always gotten along. Like a pendulum swinging wide and predictably, my appreciation of this soul taxi has varied depending on it's appearance. I gave birth - twice - and I was so proud of it's strength. I lost the baby weight - twice - and oh, how I loathed the changes that became permanent! Ran a race, proud. Pants are tight, negative thoughts swirl. You get the picture.
I can't tell you the number of years I've charged into the New Year like a sprinter at the Olympics. Metaphorically of course, my top running speed isn't so impressive. I was certain that I'd accomplish every single goal written on those typed, double-spaced pieces of paper. Examples:
M.S. in Marriage and Family Therapy. Earns Crossfit participation trophies. Disaster cook. Enthusiastic wife. #Boymom. Clutches her faith, not her pearls.