Stop. Drop. ROLL.
I’ve stopped. I spent the entire fourth quarter of 2011 stopping. For any of you who are as non-physics-minded as I am, you’ll be as surprised as I was to appreciate how very much time and energy it takes to just stop. Take the mere inertia of your day-to-day, add to that the size, volume, and mass of a bad habit you’ve spent a decade developing, then multiply all that by the velocity of time as you age, and what you’ve got there is one fifantic behemoth of a juggernaut. Put that beast in a crisi and what you’ve got is an early 20th century ocean liner moving forward still, yet filling with numbingly icy certain uncertainty. Needless to say – it’s tough trying to bring it all to a halt.
I’ve spent the first month of 2012 trying desperately to drop something other than the ball (at work, in workouts, on this blog . . . ). Finally I can now report that after far too many happy hours fraught with whining pleas, angry tirades, and overwrought armchair psychoanalysis (and I’m sure to the sheer and utter delight of my tireless yet overtaxed friends) I’ve dropped it. All.
And now for the fun part; I’m ready to roll.
It occurs to me that this rolling could really take any number of forms. I could just roll on in a stayed, calm, stiff-upper-lip deafeningly silent display of unbroken-ness. Or I could just roll out in a packed up, moved out, pedal down cloud of dust out of this rubble and onward toward a dawning horizon of a Brand New Life. Or I could roll, right after I rock, in a twice-as-bright-if-half-as-long blaze of fiery glory with drunken debaucherous leather-clad nights of freedom to pass on all the unsightly moss that a rolling stone is ever loathe to gather.
It begs the question, really: How do I roll?
Personally, I’m looking now to just roll with the punches. To wit: Where the punch is a depressingly emptied guest room, the roll is a fully realized (long merely fantasized) in-home yoga studio.
Where once there were lemons, lemonade.