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Have you ever had a dream where you try to run but you can’t move quickly enough? Often it feels as though my arms and legs are unbearably heavy and slow, like I’m swimming in honey. Sometimes I can flail my limbs as fast as I like but they don’t seem to have any traction, like I’m floating above the ground instead of standing on it. The emotion that my immobility leaves me with (other than the dread that usually accompanies a nightmare) is a foggy sense of inability; like I don’t know how to escape and even if I did, I wouldn’t be capable of it. That’s what I feel after five days of confinement to a three by four metre room. I’ve been sick with a head cold since Sunday, I received strict orders to stay in bed and get better. I’ve been obedient. The first two days were fun, they always are. My girlfriend made me breakfast in bed, I watched hours of mindless video, I didn’t change out of my pyjamas. The escapism that the first few moments of a cold offer is bliss—I get to embrace my selfish, comfort driven inner child and I’m encouraged to do so. When pleasure turns into pattern, though, I go a little nuts. I believe the phrase is stir-crazy. Tuesday was the beginning of my frustration; my girlfriend had a particularly busy day, so I was on my own from dawn to dusk. Once she left the apartment, it was still dark, I searched for something to occupy myself with. She had mentioned that she had a muddy old pair of boots that needed cleaning. So somewhere before sunrise I found myself squatting in the shower, in my pjs, cleaning the mud off of my girlfriend’s boots with my old toothbrush. I polished them too, they sparkle. See: stir-crazy. After forty eight hours, relaxing doesn’t relax me. The hours overstay their welcome. My fingers itch for something to do, but my options are limited. I’m sick enough that anything physical is off the table, loading the dishwasher is enough activity to bring about cold sweats; and my fever has turned my brain to porridge, reading and writing are insurmountable tasks. I’m left to navigate a strange landscape: there is a feeling deep within me, pushing me to do something, achieve something, tick a checkbox. The thing is, I feel a foggy sense of inability; like I don’t know what box to tick. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be capable of ticking it.
One day before my bedrest was ordered, my girlfriend and I were on our way to her sister’s birthday party; she had asked us to arrive a little earlier to help set up. Suitably, then, we were loaded with party stuff: cookies and treats and a big cheesecake. A good few bags. Naturally, I was keen to get to get to the party and offload my luggage, my pace matched my eager mindset. The two of us chatted on the train ride and my girlfriend asked a question that challenged me. Why are you always in a rush? She asked me this as I sped, full tilt, out of our train car. Well, I’m not, I told her. I’m not in a rush when I overtake the person walking at a glacial pace in the grocery store. I’m not in a rush when I skip down the train station stairs as quickly as I can. I’m not in a rush when I take big steps, or when I cross the street just before the light turns green, and especially not when I hurry out the front door, checking my watch.
Mad as it may sound, I really don’t try to rush, but when my other half and I began finding rather irrefutable evidence to the contrary, it made me think. I don’t register my pace as a bad thing. When I want to go somewhere, I go. Once I get there, though, I’m happy to sit or browse or take my time if it fits the occasion. That’s a very big, very specific if for me. When I’ve got a list of veggies I need for tonight’s supper, I have a mission to complete. Being trapped behind the wall of people who seem to discover a new product in every isle drives me up the wall! I’m focussed: get in, get the goods, get out. When I’m at a bookshop, though, I’m off duty. Just being in the building checks my box, so I’m happy as Larry to roam at the pace of a snail alongside my fellow slow-pokes. Getting to the bookshop, of course, involves my usual high paced stride. I was pardoned of some of my behaviour: on the platform waiting for our next train, my girlfriend counted out loud as she walked her natural pace. I took steps exactly when she did and very quickly outpaced her. I have long legs and a long gait; not my fault. (Yes, we actually did this; picture me with two tote bags over one shoulder, carrying a cheesecake at a busy underground station). She then, very cleverly, asked a second illuminating question. Why don’t you just walk at my pace, then? A very reasonable request. Why not tone it down? We were on our way to her sister’s birthday party, it was a day of celebration—and a lovely warm day at that. Why didn’t I just slow down and soak in the sun? We’ll get there in time, what’s the rush?
My mom says she’s task-oriented. Evidently, so am I. It’s the same itch I’m reaching to scratch when I want to power walk through the cheese isle and when I’d rather be running than sitting in bed for the third morning in a row. I know I need to take it easy and let my body recover; I tried powering through my sickness earlier this week, going shopping and running around like usual, and I got a quick, ugly reminder that I should let my body rest. I know, too, that taking life slowly is of value. I want to take enough time to appreciate the sunny days and the special occasions while I have them. I don’t want to be so focussed on where I’m going that I miss out on where I am. I think that’s what my girlfriend wants when she invites me to slow down. Wait, watch, enjoy. The train station on the way to the bookstore can be a destination, a story, an adventure, a break, too. She’s right, as usual. During this week of recovery I’ve felt trapped in my room, and in my body, because of a lack of tasks to orient myself around. Without somewhere to steer my focus, I’m left feeling that foggy, dreamy sense that I should be doing something. I can never figure out what.
I believed, at one point, that this week’s journal would be about identifying a bad habit I have, why I need to change, and pledging to do so. But I’m unconvinced that my task-oriented nature is a bad habit to be phased out. I don’t believe I rush, either. Perhaps knowing who I am is a powerful enough revelation. I like walking quickly, it makes me feel like I’m doing a good job. I also love my girlfriend, and I’m more than willing to slow down and make the journey a part of the adventure. I think it’s okay that sitting in the same room for a week makes me feel a bit crazy. I think it’s probably very normal, even if my need to find chores to do isn’t. I’m doubtful that there is an abundance of growth to be done there; I think I’ll probably be frustrated and bored with my following cold, too. Here’s to the next pair of boots I clean.
My mom overtakes slow-pokes when she’s on a grocery mission, too. If this journal resonates with you, please send it to someone you love.