…is often where I find myself. More often than not, I’m dragging my feet closely behind an intimidating crowd who’ve already been there and done that. Even now as a blogger. I peek at other people’s archives and feel dwarfed from the magnitude of posts. But I still continue to write and hope that no one will poke and make fun of my immaturity (or peek at my Archives. Don’t do it. There’s probably an echo in there).
Being an afterthought has been a recurring theme in my life. My “fresh off the boat” parents blinded themselves with their intense work ethic, and never understood the social norms of being a kid, or just wanting some form of a social life. They were pretty much un-cool with anything outside the realm of school or books. As a result, I never had sleepovers, learned how to drive well after high school, never wore make-up until college, and was never allowed to date, “officially”. Heck, I never knew what the world outside felt like after 12pm until I moved out of my parent’s house during college. And even then, it took me a while to see that geeking it out at the library past 2am, was not very cool.
The only aspect of my life where I feel I’ve managed to pull away from the pack was starting a family (oh, and in 6th grade when the powers that be granted me the gift of ovulation earlier than the rest, while wearing white shorts of course). Among all of my close friends, I was the first to get married and start a family. As many of you who have single friends may already know, this always presents for some interesting conversation. Or lack thereof.
Although I would never trade in my current life as a mother for anything in the world, boy what I wouldn’t do for just a fraction of the spare time I had while single. I’m constantly reading on IM with my “still single, thin and in-shape” friends how they are going to stop by the gym, went for a long run, or took a fun spinning class.
*sigh*
“Excuse me, hot guy with the glowing tan and must-have-a-few-girlfriends kind of face. Can you please watch my 2- year old while I squeeze myself into a pair of Lycra pants, in a sad attempt to smooth out and hide the lumps of cottage cheese sagging along my backside? I need to walk on the treadmill on the lowest setting possible for 25 minutes, thanks. Oh, and don’t worry, she doesn’t scream, often. The local dogs will let you know if there’s a problem.”
There I was, convinced that my workout free life was all a result of my dedicated time as a mother. But then I stopped by Bill Gathen’s blog to discover that he makes daily 6am trips to the gym before his two kids and wife are even awake. Then he leaps tall buildings in a single bound to get to work. I stood there in a pile of dust. Defeated, and behind the curve again.