No, no. Not in a "uh-uh, is she about to go bat-shit crazy and jump off that cliff of Woe Is Me again?" No. Not waffling like that. There will be no rocking back and forth in a dark corner twirling my hair into little twisty braids and muttering for me this time around (note: that never literally happened--just using it as a metaphor, interwebs; lest you really worry for my sanity) I'm just...acclimating.
I'm touring gym, which is pretty hi-larious considering I'm hobbling around sans toe nail and am not supposed to be in closed-toe shoes for at least another week. I'll tell you something, though; this whole mangled-toe thing is an injury far better suited for our old home where I could comfortably be in flip flops well into November. It's 50 degrees up here in the morning, and I'm bundling Ethan up in sweaters and hats, until he's just shy of Randy's "tick about to pop" look in A Christmas Story, and then I'm toodling out of the house in a pair of summer-old flip flops. It ain't pretty and it's freaking freezing.
But I'm looking at gyms nonetheless. You might recall I declared the past June-August period "The Summer of Sarah", where I intended to work out and write every day while Ethan was at school. And of course, that didn't happen. It started happening, but once news of our impending move sunk in, those hours that would have been spent sweating at the gym and hunched over my computer turned into hours building and filling boxes. I'm not complaining for a minute--we've been here for just shy of 2 weeks and I feel like I am HOME. I love it here and would pack to move here all over again if I had to. But? "The Summer of Sarah" turned into "The Summer of Sarah Stress-Eating Her Way Into a Bigger Size Jeans. Which I guess is absolutely what I deserve for trying to borrow words from a grade-A loser like George Costanza as a means of inspiration. Lesson learned.
Today I toured one gym very close by Ethan's new school--perfection, right? Drop him off at 8:30 am, head over to the gym and sweat for 2 hours, sit in a coffee shop and write in my blog and other projects for another 2 hours. Except this gym isn't for me. How do I know? For starters, the guy on the elliptical trainer next to me practically punched me about five times whilst acting out whatever song he was listening to on his iPod.
Please take a moment to picture little old me hobbling onto an elliptical machine and going about my business when suddenly there is a fist in front of my face. I look to my left and the guy on the machine next to me, who seemed totally normal only seconds before, is now enthusiastically mouthing the words to whatever he's listening to, eyes closed, head shaking back and forth and arms punching to the side and then up in the air and then to the side again.
I got about 3 minutes into this little elliptical dance routine before the guy really got going and the shaking of his head made me a target for wayward beats of strange-man sweat. I WILL PASS ON THE STRANGE-MAN SWEAT, THANK YOU!
And so I hopped off that elliptical and moved to another one, but then I spent the next 25 minutes feeling badly that flailing sweaty man would know that I moved because of the near punching and hear sweating-on and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Because I was raised with the perfect amount of Jewish guilt and, this facility being Jewish in nature, it totally tapped into my guilt. Nevermind that freaky Sweat Man should have felt bad for almost beating me about the head and neck while I was trying to work out. Nope. I needed to expend energy feeling badly that I'd maybe offended the guy through my desire to stay unbruised and glistening with only my own perspiration.
As an aside, could I be on more of a tangent? If you're still reading--thank you. I've developed quite a rambling habit.
The main reason I'm not going to join that gym is that it is obscenely expensive because aside from being beaten by other patrons while on the cardio equipment, it boasts all kinds of other social activities and pools and tennis courts and enrichment classes, sauna, steam room, blah blah blah. Saunas and steam rooms make my blood pressure sky rocket, I don't swim or play tennis and the "mandatory fun" of social activities with strangers makes me break out into hives. So, there's that.
Tomorrow I will tour another facility that is perhaps more in line, price-wise and amenities-wise, with what we're looking for. Maybe a little nicer than our warehouse-y YMCA from LA, but not quite as posh as this almost-country club.
As for friends, I see lots of potential. Moms at Ethan's school are friendly and accessible. Our next door neighbors have already had us over for a play date and having three kids live next door aged 8, 6 and 2.5 is wonderful. Best part is, they are home-schooled, so they're home often and Ethan can play with them during their break times. They grow a lot of wonderful vegetables in their yard, so Ethan always gets to see giant pumpkins and we have free reign over the parts of the cherry tomato plant that falls onto our yard. They're the type of neighbors who leave notes on your fence and knock on your door. I love that. I've also tentatively joined a book club. So as much as I was dreading the whole "throw yourself at every friendly face' method of friend-making I employed in Los Angeles, I have found myself going back to it here, keeping in mind that I met some wonderful people in LA because of it.
Writing? In our new house I have, for the first time ever, a dedicated space for writing. It is small and I need to work hard to really carve it out as a Mama's Writing Space Only nook, but it's mine and I intend to use it daily. And I intend, at some point in the near future, to start looking for opportunities to really "be" a writer. Like a paid one, in some capacity. I love this blog and hope to write it forever, but when I'm old and grey, I don't want to look back and think, "I wish I'd had the confidence to really embrace writing as a more complete part of my identity." So there's that.
And the dream of being a mother for a second time over? Sigh. Two years ago Husband I decided to give it a year. Then we decided to give it another year. I was 36 at the time and said that 38 was my absolute cut-off age for having another child. I will be 38 in 3 weeks. Unless I'm about 35 weeks pregnant and don't know it (I could SO have my own TLC show if I were!), I'm not going to have a baby before I turn 38. For a short period of time I was starting to make peace with the idea of having an only child. Took comfort in thinking about all the things we could provide for Ethan as an only child that we might not be able to give to two children. Relishing the idea of getting my body back for good and sleeping more at night than I have in almost four years. I started to think I could really give up the dream of another child. And then I held a friend's newborn and that peace slipped silently into the ether, replaced instead with a renewed sense of must. have. baby. And so we shift our perspective and our boundaries again.
So, two days after my 38th birthday I have an appointment with a new Reproductive Endocrinologist. We shall see.