All in good time

“I don’t understand a word they’re saying.” A girl, likely around age 10, whispered from behind me as I sprawled on a blanket and tried mightily to ignore the fact that I was hot. I giggled and looked to find my new friend laughing as well.

When I was in high school, we had writing days in one particular class. We were to come in with paper, pen and a topic in mind, then sit and write an essay. No focus on form – this particular teacher didn’t even demand paragraphs – or punctuation or spelling. Just the ability to think and articulate feelings on a particular problem.

I wrote once about how I hated gym. Kind of like how I hate being hot. I saw it as something to be endured with great amounts of whining, and only did that when I couldn’t figure out a way to avoid it completely. I remember – because even then I struggled with weight – writing that it was a shame that the classes were all structured the same. After all, we’re different. I hate team sports with a passion. Get embarrassed easily and feel badly when I duck from the ball (I’m sorry, but a volleyball hurts like hell when it hits my arms. They turn red, for goodness sake! That’s not cool!) and my team loses. I dreaded those days when we ended up inside and had to play kickball with the boys.

I continued my high school essay by saying that fitness was important. I recognized that though I had no desire to match actions to this feeling. But if someone offered me time to walk or jog at my own pace? Perhaps offered a weight training class that was catered to certain students? In short, if we replaced the freaking “how many sit-ups can you do in 60 seconds?” tests with something that appealed to smaller groups, perhaps some of us who cowered in the corner would learn to develop a routine that would keep us healthier.

I understand there are class size restrictions and the lack of staff and money to put such programs in place. But it’s taken me years to find exercise routines that seem to work for me. I’ve suffered through crash dieting to try to be pretty. Even now, I tend to go through cycles when I eat too much, followed by eating too little to compensate. I don’t have a happy medium because I never really learned how to create one. I have some idea of how to cook for a family from watching Mom, but when it comes to just me? I end up shrugging and ordering pizza.

Except now I walk. There aren’t quick results. My clothes – 7 months after starting – are just now starting to hang unattractively loose. But for the most part, I enjoy picking out which hills to climb and what parts of the neighborhood to wander through. I laugh at Chienne or tug her along when she stops for too long. I scowl some mornings as I’m cranky and trying to work through problems. Other days find me adopting a more serene attitude as I face life with a bit more sunny hope. Likewise, the other day I was driving home and realized I had no food. I did, however, have cash, so I was discarding various take-out options. I ended up stopping at the grocery store for milk so I could make a noodle dish at home. Something balanced and healthy and shockingly appealing when compared to fast food options. I’m figuring out something that seems to work long-term. It just took me a long time.

So when the girl I mentioned the beginning expressed her confusion? I remembered doing the same thing in college. Picking up MacBeth and not being able to keep track of all the characters, let alone understand what they were trying to tell me. So I rented the movie. Shamefully, of course, because it was Shakespeare, and if I was really smart, I’d get it.

I didn’t. Frowned over the movie, took notes to try to memorize characters, and battled my way through the play. Wrote my paper – which I’m sure was boring and predictable – and forgot all about it. On my way to the park today, I mentioned to my friend that I had read it before. I was trying to be a bit impressive, I think. Unfortunately, she’d read it too. Neither of us remembered much. So it was with mutually unexpressed expectations of a long evening in the park that we arrived, had a nice little picnic (during which I complained about the hot a minimal amount!) and put our blanket down to guard our patch of grass.

The play started, and – shockingly – I liked it. Understood it. Laughed and watched with my mouth slightly open through parts as I saw pieces come together. It turns out Shakespeare was pretty good at what he did. Who knew?

I’ll admit that I probably missed a few points. And were we to have a discussion of the play, I’d likely have more questions that insightful statements. Well, and you might be less than impressed by the insightful statements I made. But if invited to see it again? I’d definitely accept. Not out of a feeling that I should like or understand MacBeth, but from a genuine enjoyment of the work.

I don’t think it’s all due to age – this ability to find my way through life or literature. Quite frankly, it irritates me when people say, "you'll understand when you get older." Though that may be partly true. Or perhaps now that the pressure is off – I don’t have to blush when it’s my turn to kick the ball or try to produce a MacBeth paper in the minimum amount of time so I can deal with differential equations – I’m free to let myself get it or not. I try to do that at work sometimes – find other projects while taking breaks from a primary one. Let myself drift a bit while I see if something clicks into place and everything makes more sense.

If I’d been bored silly at intermission tonight, that would have been fine. I’m glad that I wasn’t because it made for a more pleasant evening. When the girl sitting on her blanket behind me reiterated to her mother at the end of the evening – “I really didn’t understand a word they were saying.” – I grinned again. I’ve been there – feeling like everyone gets it but you. Hell, right now? I think I’m going to be the only one left alone in the end. That I won’t find someone to love who’ll love me back. I wonder why I can’t pull it together at work when so many other people have found their footing and are moving briskly forward.

For tonight, I’m giving myself a break on all the lack of progress. If I’d spent the last 9 years worried over why MacBeth didn’t mean much to me, I likely would have panicked at the idea of facing it for a fun evening. While it easier to ignore MacBeth than my personal life or work, I think it’s possible – in some moments – to accept that I just don’t get it right now. Can’t understand how it’s all coming together, might be missing many relevant points, and am just doing what I can to get through some days.

That’s OK, I’ll tell myself soothingly. Perhaps one day, I’ll find myself on a blanket, laughing at the right jokes and watching wide eyed at how a story comes together in a particularly impressive way, and realize I was just waiting to be ready to see it.