The Dog Days of Don't Wanna

We can stop running.

When we’re stuck in our mundane we forget to indulge in our delusions. We disconnect from the reality that we have a choice, a dream, and frankly, a whole lot of other shit we could be doing.  

Lately, I’ve felt further from my shameless than I care to admit. I’ve been overwhelmed by an overstuffed plate and disappointed by how little room I’ve left for the things I care about. 

I feel like I’ve been running without an end in sight. Or more accurately, I run and reach my pre-determined finish and instead of stopping, I tack on a few more laps because I can. 

It’s a mindset that likely stems from scarcity. Or fear. Or deflection. It’s the idea that I need to make hay while the sun shines. So, as long as the sun is shining, I should be out in the field—not focused on writing, creating a much-delayed audio version of said writing, or giving myself room to breathe.

I’ve felt trapped, boxed in by my choices, and have even started to question whether my wind-in-the-hair, glory years are behind me (the tractor’s plexiglass cab doesn’t get good airflow). 

Last week, at age 34, I googled “perimenopause symptoms”. 

More disturbingly, I’ve felt seduced by satan’s whisper, “Mediocrity is a loser’s best-case scenario.” 

Another key marker that I’m nearing a breaking point: I’ve started to watch the latest season of Intervention. 

Anytime I resume spectatorship on Intervention (or Teen Mom and any of its pitiful offshoots) it means that–whether or not I recognize it—I’m on a downswing. 

Giving into voyeuristic sadism to watch someone’s life that’s going exponentially shitter than yours doesn’t exactly spell “contented”. Seeking affirmation that we’re doing great simply because we’re not smoking Fentanyl or giving birth at 14 isn’t “high vibration”. It’s not giving “pillar of health and wellness”.

And so, this is me checking myself. 

While I can’t immediately offload all of the burdens I’ve strapped onto my person, I can rejig some things. I can reframe priority, chip away, and do the things that I know make me feel good (even if I don’t feel like it at the time).

One such feel-good item that I didn’t feel like was a jog around our neighbourhood. I dreaded the thought but needed to undo some of the sins of “Carlee and Cody”.

Trapped inside my AC cavern, I didn’t realize that it was 30℃ with close-range, milk-breathed humidity. 

Instead of turning back inside, I put on an amp-up playlist, blared it, and ran. 

I ran for exactly 650m. Then, I stopped running. 

I was done.

And so, in my sports bra and shorts, I veered off course into the “big house” neighbourhood. Passing by each double-wide, double-brick, I scoured the curbside for abandoned rich people's junk. I spotted a shearling and leather Penny Lane coat but was too hot to inspect for the dynamic duo (bugs n’ stains).

I meandered on.

A few minutes later, I remembered that I was close to Futura Granita, one of Toronto’s premiere gelato joints.

Instead of running, I would schlick gelato in the sun. 

When I got there, it was closed. But the thrill of wholeheartedly letting myself off the hook tasted sweet enough. 

“More of this,” I thought. 

This is our permission to stop running.

—

Take this as a public declaration/ sworn statement that I’ve turned off Intervention (and the season isn’t even over yet)…“Until next time my dark friend.”