I don’t like to think of myself as “goal-oriented.” That’s boring. People with goals are boring.
And yet. Without goals I fumble and flail. I thought I was going to run a half marathon and then I decided it wasn’t for me. All that “training” was what got me to the gym, on the road. When I decided I didn’t want the destination, the journey kind of halted too. I know that’s endlessly trite, but I used to think goals were trite too. After I decided not to run the marathon I sat, stood (but most certainly did not run) at an impasse. Where do I go from here?
It took something as simple as a change in the direction of my exercise regime for me to realize that I need direction in all that I do. I didn’t have a test last week so I went to bed early every night. I didn’t read or “catch up” or God forbid calculate my physics grade. There was no end in sight so I languished in the in-betweeness. I really don’t like the in-between. It’s the most unstable place to be.
There’s no resolution to this shout out to my legs (the underlying message: I still love you even though I didn’t let you do your thing) and to my ever declining living conditions. I think, though, that in acknowledging my lack of goals, some karma or some fairy or maybe some fed up Connelly will fill in those big spaces where direction could really do some good things.