Giving Myself Permission
Not only during isolation
Life was proceeding routinely on schedule for me, before the pandemic.
BP — as I’ve come to call it. Why not give it a name? A moniker? I would have used B.C., but that was already taken.
Since I’m not as young as I used to be, and life has changed in home confinement for over a month’s time, the worn notches on my belt have stretched and sagged, then tore, to the point I was left with no option but to buy a new belt.
That was a major letdown. I wanted this to be the summer of martinis and bikinis. Maybe there’s still time.
The purchase was just a click away, but what amazed me was the huge selection to choose from. Then my eyes landed on it.
A leopard print belt with a sassy double-circle ring clip. It was cute for sure, but I held my breath as I dreaded seeing the probability that it wouldn’t be offered in my size. I prayed — strange the things I bother the Almighty with, especially during a health crisis. As if the hotline wasn’t already being overloaded with invocations and petitions and global supplications.
But the miracle happened and the size ranges blew my mind. Belt sizes ranging from 24 to 46 waist.
I clicked on the order and went on to the next item of business - what to make for lunch.
Opening the refrigerator door, I stood there for at least two minutes, like it was some Google or Wiki page search, then checked out the freezer compartment, taking inventory and wishing I could just Grubhub it, for pizza or pasta delivery. Or Uber Eats, some fine chicken and ribs. Maybe I just would. I definitely considered it.
I got interrupted by a “bing” sound coming from my laptop. You’ve got messages, it called out to me. I read them; they were welcome visitors to my home. The messages and texts and calls were like little hugs, I so desperately needed during house arrest. Like little chocolate kisses of love. Better yet, a file baked in a cake.
Take the gun, leave the cannoli.
And then, as I’m apt to do, regardless of the time, day or night, I logged on to check what’s buzzing on the Medium Writing page.
My eyes floated to my personal profile bio. Intermittent faster with a Taylor guitar. That used to be true BP. At that moment, I decided to be completely honest, always a big mistake, when it comes to numbers, like age, weight, and IQ. I started to edit my profile.
Occasional intermittent faster, with a Taylor guitar. That was better and 100% accurate, yet why was it making me feel so bad?
I majored in English, not Psychology, but since I have no mad money for therapy, my self-analysis will have to do in a pinch, DIY, and cheap as dirt.
Even with a headache and on an empty stomach, I knew what was bothering me. By adding that keyword, occasional, to intermittent faster, I was enabling myself to fall off the wagon. To fail. Again.
BP — before pandemic — I had been a diligent, almost religious, and steadfast intermittent faster for 18 months. It wasn’t just a diet; it was a lifestyle. I grew accustomed to its face.
So, I did fall off the wagon during home isolation. So what? That much was true. It was OK. I needed to give myself permission to KNOW that it was OK. Even if it was just my coping mechanism to deal with unimaginable stress and change.
But, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t get back on the metaphorical treadmill again, anytime I wanted.
So, I edited once more and deleted the word, occasional.
Now, I give myself permission to exhale and have that sweet chicken and ribs for lunch and to call myself an honorary and forever intermittent faster.
With a new, smokin’ hot, leopard print belt!
connie song 2020
