This morning, my trainer, Wendy, texted me that she had a migraine and couldn’t go to the Rings with me.
First, I thought, “my poor Wendy.”
SIDEBAR: Once a mother, always a mother, although sometimes I believe SOS would pronounce “mother” in that particularly uncomplimentary way often spelled as “mudder”. I hear it only gets worse in the true teenage years.
Then, “Phew, no pain, no failure. Sweeeet!”
Then, realizing that I was drawn to the Rings, I got up and dressed. I took off my wedding ring and my grandmother’s wedding ring (which I wear on my right hand), so I could go mano a mano with my nemesis. For those of you who have forgotten the brief history of pain and humiliation, let me provide a little back story:
There are 8 equidistant rings. The space in between is wider that my wing span and the rings are higher than I can reach; therefore, I cannot take advantage of a running start. The partial view of my chosen instrument of torture and defeat:
I have to build my own momentum or, what I call, the “swing thing”. One of my attempts to get the rhythm of the “swing thing”:
And of course, the out-take video: IMG_1068
And finally to the perils doing the “swing thing with rings”:
So, today, with Wendy in bed with a migraine, I went alone. Without weddings rings and videographer (thank G-d for undocumented foibles), but lots of chalk.
First few attempts were lame, except I was able to hold on and swing with one hand. This is way harder than you would think.
I was ready to stomp off in a “Woe is I” sort of self-pity. Then, I remembered how I was really getting a groove last week before I had to stop (on account of blood).
I stopped. I thought. I chalked up. I felt the stillness of a near empty park on a cool late summer morning. I focused on everything that needed to be in synch: I needed to turn to ring I was dropping, crunch my abs, kick up my legs (like a swing) and then let my arms flow with the momentum to bring me up. Then let go the minute the swing of the legs hit its height and let the momentum carry me forward as I grabbed the next ring. I needed to trust my body and let go of fear.
I needed to soar.
And then I did.
I almost grabbed the seventh of eight rings. I didn’t do the whole thing.
And here is the only picture that shows I was there. Swollen chalked-up hands.
But I did soar. And it was great. And there is work still. A goal that seemed impossible in June and now seems within reach in September.
And I have to reach that goal. Because, among the many personal reasons, there is one reason that stands out — the silent lessons we teach by action or inaction, or giving up, or persevering, when the going gets tough or frustrating. I have to credit my friend, TsanOB, in making me think about this.
First, I want to be proud of me and, second, I want SOS to be proud of me, even if I will be the “mudder” of his teenage years.
