Sucking It Up And Doing The Hard Yards

SUCKING IT UP AND DOING THE HARD YARDS by Maree Anderson (for Writers Gone Wild)

Hi all,

As is usual lately, I've not gotten around to scheduling a post that would go live at around 5 or 6pm Thursday NZ time (12.01am Friday here on WGW). Noooo, rather than be that organized, yesterday I wrote like a madwoman in between parent/teacher interviews, a run to the grocery shop, and dealing with kid-dramas such as sunburned daughters, and grumpy sons who accuse aforementioned sunburned daughters of deliberately getting badly sunburned so she has an excuse not to go to karate.... Excuse me while I roll my eyes ceiling-ward.

Accordingly, at 5.30pm I tore myself away from the manuscript to throw on my gi, chivvy Dear Son into getting ready, and convince Dear Husband that he would be an idiot to come to karate with us with a pulled shoulder muscle. Especially considering the fact he was lying on the bed, groaning whenever he moved at the time. Cue another eye-roll.

"I'll work through it," he said. "Though I'll probably be a mess tomorrow."

"Don't be an idiot," I said -- that's the polite version, BTW ;-)

So off I head with DS to karate, feeling all virtuous. Because hey, it'd be so much easier to stay at home, write a post for this blog, figure out where this scene in my current manuscript is heading, then lounge on the couch with a glass of wine and blob in front of an episode of Supernatural. Mmm. Sam and Dean. Calorie-free treats of the BEST kind... nom nom nom. But no. I am determined to shed this weight I packed on over the last six months of nursing this stupid sore ankle, and an hour of karate is one helluva cardio workout.

And wouldn't you know it? We're doing kicks in karate. And my bloody ankle that I munted (Kiwi term for "stuffed" or "ruined", or in this case, "hurt rather badly") back in freaking July last year is still whimpering at the mere thought karate kicks. Because we always tend to start off with right foot back, short or long fighting stance. Meaning that we do most of our kicks with our right leg, balancing on our left leg.... And it's my left ankle that's giving me problems.

As DH had considered doing, I suck it up and "work through it" and get through the class. Yay me.

And as I limp out the door it becomes a question of, do I risk aggravating this sore ankle even more with a dance class? Wouldn't it be so much easier to cook a proper meal instead of munching on a protein bar? Have a good soak in a hot shower and wash and style my hair, instead of a two minute rinse, and nuking my damp bangs with the hairdryer? Not to mention my manuscript is calling. Plus this blog post needs writing. And oh, a glass of wine! And Sam and Dean!! *cue piteous sobbing*

I go to dance class.

Of course there's no rest for the wicked *g*. And after class, various guys start asking me to dance. For now, I only manage two songs before I have to sit down and rest the stupid ankle. And often I want to decline a request altogether and say, "Sorry, I'm resting my sore ankle. You know, the one that's so sore I just limped off the dance floor?" But there's that kicked-puppy look in their eyes when you say "Sorry, no." And you just know it's taken a heap of guts for a guy to walk up to a stranger and ask her to dance.... OMG. Way to lay on the guilt, guys! So up I get, and take to the floor again.

Doubtless it comes as no surprise that this morning, when I first get out of bed I can barely walk, the bloody ankle hurts so much. But I don't care. Even while I'm hobbling round, I'm smiling.

Why? Because last night after class, a bunch of us headed to Denny's as per usual. And one of the guys complimented me on looking good and obviously losing weight since he'd last seen me. Don't be shocked. When guys are hefting you into drops and dips and laybacks, they notice these things, more's the pity. LOL. And we all know each other very well, so no one takes offense at this sort of comment.

He couldn't be more wrong, of course. I've packed on 5 kilos in the past six months, and have only just begun to get rid of it again. Then I still have to lose the 5 kilos I needed to lose before that. Sigh.... So it's interesting that he thought I looked good and had lost weight, when in fact I'd gained weight, and was suffering a bad breakout into the bargain!

I believe he thought I looked good because I was genuinely happy to be back dancing, and catching up with friends. My happiness must have shone through and eclipsed the spots and the wobbly bits that need firming *g*

And looking back now, I believe that taking the "easy" way can make you miserable. For months, I sat at home, coddling the damn injury, playing it safe by not going to dance class, and missing my friends and the social interaction. I told myself if I went to class, I wouldn't be able to just sit there and watch, I'd have to join in. So it was easier not to go. I pretty much became a recluse and didn't socialize at all over those months.

Sure, I might have saved myself a worse physical injury -- my physio reckoned if I'd gone over on the ankle while wearing high-heeled dance shoes, the ligaments were so weakened I'd have broken it. But I think I did a worse injury to my soul. I packed on the weight because I was miserable. I got depressed because I was packing on the weight and I was miserable. I didn't go to dance class and sit and watch my friends because it was easier to stay at home. It told myself it was easier for my family, who have to fend for themselves on a Thursday night. In truth, it was easier for me not to make the effort.

Ah. I think I've finally figured out what I've been trying to say throughout this long, rambling post:

Sometimes, when it comes to things you're passionate about and things you love, even if it hurts you've just gotta suck it up and do the hard yards.

And we writers know all about that, don't we?

Now, back to that manuscript....

Cheers,

Maree