As the 11:30 class started last week, we circled up and Coach Hannah asked the go-around question. What type of email inbox person are you?
I tried my best to stall while telling everyone my name and preferred gender pronouns, but finally, I had to admit that I thoroughly go through my email about twice a year. Which was totally a lie. Truthfully, I did it once 6 months ago, so I’m just hoping that I’ll do it again soon.
As I write this, the red number on the top-right corner of that iPhone envelope, is a four-digit number. Let’s just say, if that number was a year, it would be during the Renaissance.
And this type of behavior is not isolated.
The summer after I graduated college, I decided it was time to adult and finally clean my car. All the way in the back of the trunk, there was a 30-rack of beer that was definitely from fall semester, hopefully of that year. In the pocket behind the passenger seat, there were notes that were passed to me in high school. The glove compartment looked like a serial killer’s token chest: a ring of bike lock keys that weren’t mine, some fishhooks, a barrage of scratched mix CDs with people’s names on them, and a few handfuls of Taco Bell fire hot sauce.
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Being 27, friends and family like to spring that question, even if I’m just trying to enjoy my bottomless mimosa at brunch. So, do you think you’ll ever want kids?
To which, I have to explain my pyramid of responsibility. First, I need to be able to take care of a plant, any plant. Most recently, my friend gave me a pot of a couple cacti, which I have willfully neglected for the past three years. I’m not even sure if they are alive (Sorry, Arella).
Then, and only then, after I have a blooming orchid or lemon tree in my living room, will I consider fostering a dog. Probably a rescue, so I have something in common with it, while I tell everyone how much it’s changed my life.
And finally, after I have this orchard of fruit and herbs, and taught my canine to weed and prune the garden, will the thought cross my mind, Maybe it’s time to get some more help around here, in the form of human babies.
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This pyramid, though, is a projection. It isn’t really about me taking care of anything else. It’s not about watering or feeding or tending to anything but me.
I suck at drinking water, eating (not pizza) regularly, and brushing my own teeth. I couldn’t imagine teaching someone how to wipe their butt when I’m not entirely sure that I do it correctly myself.
And on top of it, I’m expected to work out?
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After class, Coach Hannah asked me if I wanted to lift with her the next day. I said, For sure, before she finished her sentence, at 9 AM.
I looked at her like a raccoon caught eating out of the garbage can for a second, and laughed, We’ll see.
That night before bedtime, I slammed a couple glasses of water and left one out for the morning. I checked the bus schedule, which I was surprised to find out ran before noon. I laid looking up, envisioning how the next day.
I couldn’t fall asleep until my usual witching hour. I was nervous that I wouldn’t be well rested enough to lift in the morning. But finally, I drifted to sleep.
And sometime after 8 AM that morning, I woke up. I woke the fuck up.