Soft Landings

I’m someone who likes transitions. At least I like to acknowledge that they exist. 
Beginnings, endings, even milestones.

Like a big birthday. Or that launch, manuscript, or presentation that finally finds its way from your imagination—into the “real” world. 

Those things are important. 
I think attention must be paid.
A glass of wine or some pink champagne perhaps?
We can probably all agree on that, right? 
Hell, you’re probably toasting that idea right now!

But what about the less exciting transitions? The ones that are more mundane? Not sexy at all?
Like, let’s say, returning from a vacation?

Do you give yourself a few days to rejoin the rat race, or are you more like me, committed to “hitting the ground running”?

I suppose the problem lies in the fact that I think I’m brilliant at cutting myself some slack. 

I might take a nap to circumvent all the bad decisions I’m about to make and blame on the jet lag. 
I may wait a day to get out of my pajamas. 
I may even leave the enormous pile of mail that is taunting me, unsorted (gasp) and unread (snort).

That’s just an ordinary act of self-care, right? Because, I mean that mail will do its best to kill me the first day back. Bills are staggered throughout the month for a reason. They are NOT meant to be handled all at once. That ‘s just cruel and inhumane.

Anyway, I may do all of those things—but I still feel like shit. Not only because I’ve had wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week, but because the fucking guilt is eating away at me.

Is it really beyond me to cut myself a break and give myself the “soft landing” I deserve?
Apparently.

It’s a character flaw I must come to terms with. Something, that when corrected I can only assume will add to my quality of life. But it’s gonna be uncomfortable, I’m not gonna lie. 

Turns out I do this to my post-surgical self too.

I went to a Oprah event with my sister (a commitment I made months in advance) three days after I said adios to my uterus. There may have been a ton of eye-rolling while I argued my case while everyone in my circle advised me not to go.
“What else am I gonna do all day, sit around? I declared. “I may as well sit in the same air that Oprah is breathing. It probably has healing properties!” (I know, strong argument.) 

So, against everybody’s better judgement, I showered, did my hair and make-up, ignored the flop-sweat, pushed through the mind-numbing fatigue, gathered up whatever stamina reserves I had left, and schlepped my carved-up nether region to a full day of events at Royce Hall.

Then I died. Well, not really but it sure felt like it. And although I also felt like real a boss, pushing myself to get out and do that, it was not helpful to my recovery. And it left me no other choice than to land softly the following ten days.

So, why am I so resistant to “soft landings”?
I have no idea. I wish I did.

Maybe it was the way I was raised?
Past perfectionisty issues raising their ugly heads?
The fact that “things gotta get done and who else is gonna do ‘um?”

You know what I DO know for sure? I’m not alone in this affliction.
I was just chastising my BFF for not taking the time to let one thing end before she dove into the next. I think I may have even used the term “soft landing”. 

“Take some time for yourself to process things”, I said. “You need to rest and recover.”

Geez. Take much of your own advice, do ya?

Daylight savings time is ending soon and that always kicks my ass. I think I’ll take a nap.

Carry on,
xox