Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Possible Quote of the Day: “Whenever I feel like exercising, I lie down until the feeling passes.”

Robert Maynard Hutchins

So the other night I was sitting on our deck visiting with my husband when here comes my neighbor running up the hill toward our house. Actually she was jogging, which is way different than running in that jogging, as a rule, requires cute clothes made of technologically advanced and often expensive materials such as spandex. It is this blog’s humble opinion that spandex should be outlawed from use across the planet as it’s probably causing global warming and because it makes a certain blog author look like the Michelin Man.

I am really proud of my jogging neighbor—She just had a baby (which makes her fourth) and is battling MS (which is a horrible disease). She’s an ex-rock climbing champion who spent extended time camping and climbing in places that lack several specific items that are vital to this blog’s existence like McDonald’s bathrooms and Taco Bell.

So why didn’t I jump up and cheer her on? Well, for one thing that would scare the living ooky out of her—primarily because she was in her “zone,” so to speak. Also I didn't want to embarrass her or myself. She’s not only my neighbor, she’s my friend and I like her and I want her to like me. But I must confess to an audible groan when she entered my vision. But why?

I thought about this for a long time. First there’s the obvious: Because I’m not running and I don’t have four children. I’m not running after just having a baby. I’m not running and fighting MS. I’m don’t have any of these things to contend with and I don’t even walking consistently.

Which makes me a loser. Or at least that’s how I felt. The truth is, I really am a sloth. Walking is fine, if the weather is cool, and there’s a breeze, and the stars line up just right, and…well you get the picture. But I’d rather read, or sew, or write, or do something else.

And apparently I want everyone else to be at the same level of loserhood that I deem myself. Everyone should wake up with a Diet Coke in their hand, consume something fried and heavily salted by 10 am, and drag them selves around the block just often enough so that people notice the effort.

Her discipline puts into glaring relief my pathetic-ness and it made me want to cuss. Yet, for me to become a rugged outdoor-type might take more than an Act of Congress or direct intervention from the Almighty. My DNA would have to be altered somewhere below quark level. It's not that I'm clean freak--just ask my family. I can go days without showering, no poblem. It's. Because. I don’t like to sweat. Ever. And I don't like bugs. Around my face.

But why does her sweat matter to me? Why can’t my sweet, godly, and active neighbor pursue her interest/hobby/passion without me feeling gross enough to not want to cheer and wave? And why can’t I embrace my interests/hobbies/passions and be joyful and OK about them? And why is it always about me? And in particular, why do I always make it about me being a loser?

I guess that will take some more exploration.

Send therapy bill to: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com