"If you want to look different, you need to do different!" shouted the bouncing ball of muscle and energy from the front of the class.
I was sweating and huffing my way through the kind of cardio/strength class that leaves your heart pumping, legs quivering, and mind begging "No more, please, no more."
During the next sequence, an intense one that can only be described as "jump up and over the step, hope you jump high enough not to fall, repeat," those words kept coming back, echoing again and again in cadence to an old Salt 'n Pepa hit that was the soundtrack to this class . . ."If you want to look different, you need to do different, If you want to look different, you need to do different. . ."
Deia, the aforementioned ball of muscle and energy, was refering to the 30 or so bodies before her, determining how we could strengthen our limbs, solidify our core, maybe add a little definition to our biceps, eliminate some of the dimples from our thighs by working them in different ways. Her statement wouldn't leave my mind, though, and my thighs--being numb at this point--were no longer even on the radar.
Sure, I want to look different. Who doesn't want to be more toned, lose the leftover baby bulge and maybe a handful of back fat along with it? But what I really want is to LOOK DIFFERENT.
January is a month of introspection for the majority of people. Even if you aren't the type to make resolutions, it's almost impossible to deny the implications of a new year--the possibility, the hopefulness, the beauty of turning over a new leaf spread before you with the flip of a calendar page.
I did not set resolutions this year, partially because I usually fail to keep them early on anyway, but also because I'm deep in the process of recovering from all the hell that broke loose in our family in 2011. It's taking up almost all of my energy, and most of my faith. Yet in the midst of that deep morass, I can admit this:
I want to look different. In many areas.
Beyond sculpted shoulders and thighs that don't jiggle, I want my life to look different.
I want a better marriage (see the aformentioned "hell of 2011").
I want to do friendship better. I want less Facebook and more face time with friends who speak truth, who help me find God within the ugliness, friends who take off the mask and share the real.
I want stronger relationships with my parents, my sisters, my aunts, my nephews. I want to hear the small details of their lives, want to know where they found God today. I want to spend more time just hanging with them, drinking coffee, sharing stories and laughing.
And I want to write.
So here's the math: I want different=I have to do different. I hate math, and different is uncomfortable. And painful. And it can leave you a sweaty, quivering mess.
And I want these changes, but the law of "Doing the Same Thing Over and Over and Expecting Different Results" has ruled my life. So this is the deal: I'm done with it.
Done. with. it.
That law has wreaked enough havoc, bred enough mediocrity, caused me to waste enough time, and breathed its last in the life of Melissa Marie Wienands Guinto.
So I'm going to have the conversations that are preceded by heart palpitations and are accompanied by sweaty palms and tears. I'm going to take a deep breath and speak instead of smiling and shrugging and thinking "I'll deal with it later." I'm going to schedule date nights when our budget says "not possible," and I'm going to spend time talking to my husband again instead of hiding behind laptops.
I'm going to sit my behind down at my desk, ignore the urge for that second cup of coffee, and the sudden compulsion to search Facebook for that old co-worker from my Hy-Vee days (about whom I haven't thought in 20 years), and JUST. WRITE. They may not be polished or profound, but they will be my words. Out of my head. Onto paper, virtual as it may be.
And on nights when it would be easier to pull on my comfiest pj bottoms and my UNI sweatshirt, I'm going to put on some skinny jeans and paint my lips red and hit the town with my girlfriends (B&N counts as "The Town," right?).
And yes, I'm going to keep quivering my way through Deia's class.
Because I want different.
