New Old Habits

Excuse–, I’m sorry, Sorry, Excuse me, Par–, she apologizes quietly, slightly embarrassed, every twelve seconds or so, as she brushes past pedestrians who move—appropriately—at walking speed. Nobody is doing anything wrong; everyone is using the sidewalk as it’s intended. And while her sorrys are genuine, there’s no denying that she’s irritated, too. Squeezing through strangers she’s sharing the narrow, uneven sidewalks with isn’t exactly what she was expecting or hoping for. But what was she thinking? Going on a run in the middle of the city, on a Saturday afternoon? Of course there are people, many of them, who walk, not run, and will inevitably be in her way. But in her usual fashion, she didn’t think that far. She only thought about her own motivations for this imperfect New Years day. 

It’s 2022, she’s 34-turning-35 years old, a modern woman in a modern world, who has to get her life together—for real this time. Her twenties are way past yesterday, her ex is now married, and she cannot repeat her Year of Rest and Relaxation for a third time. She finally got bored of her own pity. It’s time to make the bed in the mornings, have three meals a day, get her 10k steps in to prove that the life of a woman doesn’t end at 30, nor because the love of her life had found someone younger, more exciting after he had sucked all the youth and excitement out of her. New year, new me, she says to herself, like a true millennial, in a tone that reveals some residual spite. 

Taking out her years-long untouched leggings, sports bra and top, she forced herself into an old mold—a mold she knows is considered attractive by conventional standards, but one she has to admit she doesn’t fit into quite easily anymore. Alas, the running. She had merely reached the park she set out to circle, passed two handfuls of singles, couples, and groups; but already, she’s over it. Her breathing isn’t soft anymore, she knows she’s blushed beyond her cheeks, she feels her lips are desert dry, and she’s pretty sure her knees aren’t supposed to ache the way they currently do. She runs faster for a stretch—just enough to avoid the young family that’s walking their cute, little dog in a jolly she can’t stand just yet—until her body gives in, not even halfway around the park. 

She hadn’t exercised in over two years and was never a runner to begin with. It was obvious and predictable that neither her body nor her psyche were equipped to suddenly run five full miles on this given afternoon. However, it is her first time being the age that she is, and her first time being active again after a prolonged period of inactivity. There had not been an opportunity for her to feel the effects of her regular indulgence in cheap wines, cigarettes, and frozen pizzas—especially, sans the metabolism of her youth—until now, two-something miles into this stupid run. 

She’s out of breath like never before. She is inclined but resists to rest her hands on her knees, to not appear as out of shape as she feels. Instead, she focuses sharply on the free bench ten steps away from her and moves her shaky legs slowly and controlled towards it. Finally sitting down and catching enough breaths to feel normal again, she looks around the park watching other seemingly motivated New-Year-resolutioners who run much better than her. It annoys her. She’s not one to feel inspired by other people’s accomplishments. 

This wasn’t always this way but rather is a recent development. Since childhood she’s always been the cute one, the pretty one, the one whom everyone wanted to befriend despite her occasional roughness and sometimes misunderstood sarcasm. She never went through an awkward phase; not when puberty hit, and neither when she was experimenting with the most obscure fashion trends. She was the It girl of her local community and carried the title with impossible confidence. She thinks of her teenage years and her early twenties with fondness; she had the most fun a girl of her generation could have had. 

What changed? She doesn’t know for certain. All she knows is that it might have had to do with her previous relationship. Maybe it’s because he expressed that he wasn’t attracted to her anymore. Maybe it’s because his new girl looks awfully like her younger self, which confronted her with her age and made her feel as though she’d lost something essential to her. Not him, but her charm. The charm that she had reserved for him for so long, only for it to go unwanted, and now she doesn’t know how to access it anymore. Maybe this was the kind of rejection she thought she was immune to and now she struggles to reckon with the idea that she wasn’t. But these are just speculations. Possibilities she doesn’t care to explore too much. She has too much pride to ever allow, or admit that she may have allowed, a man to weaken her.

Having rested enough, she cuts through the park to return home. She kicks off her sneakers, strips down to her underwear, and examines the inside of her fridge as if to check in on her pets. Though not quite successful in reaching her spontaneous running goal, she feels it is appropriate to treat herself with a cold slice of all-dressed pizza and a sip (or two) of a wine as dark as the 4PM winter sky. Away from those who make her feel less hot and pretty, and less of a runner, she finds enough content with herself and her partial achievement. After all, she attempted her run with great effort and positive intentions, and such is worth rewarding. She remembers that rewards are a healthy component of self-love and self-care, too. With two hands and a mouth full, she positions herself horizontally on her suede couch, promising to no one in particular that she’ll start her new me on Monday.