There have been pretty pre-eminent themes in my life last week – if you can’t tell they’re crutches and commitment. I love a thematic week and alliteration, so it feels like a win-win.
Crutches
I’ve never broken a bone before in my life *knocks on head*, and during phys ed orientation week everyone was exchanging athletic injury stories. Torn ACLs, separated shoulders, all that fun stuff; and what did I have to add to the conversation? “Uh, one time I tripped on an escalator at a mall; there was a lot of blood.” Clearly, you can see that 1. Shopping is my favourite sport (sample sales can be very competitive) 2. I was really popular with the jocks.
But the type of crutch I’m writing about today, isn’t about athletic (or shopping related) injury. But a crutch is something/someone a person needs when they themselves can’t walk tall on their own, and that is pretty much the overarching theme of the week that was.
I may not have any epic sport injury stories, but one thing I share with my Phys Ed brethren is my love of winning. This love can be further extrapolated into excessive competitiveness, extreme stubbornness and exasperating perseverance. Love me or hate me, it’s what’s on the plate. But it also makes me fall privy to never giving up (hence perseverance), especially on people. I always feel it’s my duty to fix things; even when the conversation is circular and I feel like bludgeoning my head with a plywood 2x4, I don’t stop fighting. Thereby, I make for an excellent crutch.
But crutches, whether they are made of aluminum or made of people are only meant to be temporary. As people heal, physically or otherwise, they learn to stand on their own and be their own person again. Every wound takes a certain amount of time to heal. It’s just much easier to predict when it is something physical like a femur fracture. Regardless of how stubborn a person is the body will regenerate itself. But the mind and (non-physiological) heart are different wounds that you can keep open with stubbornness, or do a patchy job of closing it up only to have it reopen twice as badly. Kind of like discount plastic surgery.
So I’ve learned my lesson as a crutch, because as much as I pretend to be one – sturdy, strong, and cold (because I’d be made of aluminum), I can’t actually be. Because a crutch is something you use when you need it and push it to the back of your closet until your next tumble. Unfortunately I can’t be shut up in a closet until next time; I’m still there every step of the way. Moreover, I also have my own journey and path to travel and as much as I know I want to, a crutch can’t save a person who won’t save themselves.
Commitment
What I’m about to say next may seem counterintuitive, so begin scratching your temple with your index finger now. I’m actually a huge commit-a-phobe. You may think: geez Sarah aren’t you unwaveringly committed to saving bewildered souls? The answer is yes, but with qualifications. I only care to save things I really believe in, and I believe I don’t waste my time with lost causes, but what takes me a long time is to believe in something.
When I turned 22 I decided it was time to start wearing make up; considering girls have been painting their faces since the age of 12, it’s a pretty late start. I find make up daunting; there are far too many options and only God knows what it all does. I couldn’t commit to buy a whole tube of anything so I just decided I go into the world without battle paint on. To this day I cannot commit to an entire bottle of eau de toilette. 60mL of fragrance sounds like an eternity to me, and to smell like one thing for an eternity sounds like a big decision.
Commitment: could there be a dirtier word? The next one to throw out would be relationship. And on those two notes, I throw my knowledge to the gods that are HBO and consult the bible for any female between ages of 18 – 40. Because what woman hasn’t likened her life and the lives of her closest friends to the fine leading ladies of “Sex and the City”? To be hip and cool, and timelessly stuck in 2004, I will do the same.
I used to be the biggest Carrie, and just knowing it makes me hate myself a little. I had my Big-type relationship through university. I was that girl who got lost amidst a “we” and disappeared from her friends and only re-emerged when shit hit the fan. The girl who got hung up, thrown for a loop and took a hell of a long time to recover. The crutch part of me was something fierce and I tried so hard to fight for that dying relationship. He’s not the Big of my life—no, my Big is still with his Natasha, but that’s a story for another time and copious bouts of therapy later.
Today I see myself as more of a Samantha, and damn, am I much happier. I’m speaking my mind and not being jerked around. I can only apologize for what I do, not who I am. I feel like relationships get in the way of my sex life, and I’m not apologizing for that either. Every now and then crutchie Carrie comes out to play and I feel like bludgeoning her with that aforementioned 2x4. I’m just on the look out for the right someone to believe in, and then I’ll have grown up enough to be ready for it. Smith Jerrod, where are you?
In a good essay, I’d try to find a way to meld the two topics together and come up with a cohesive conclusion, but this isn’t a good essay. I, like this conclusion, am a work in progress. Thanks for coming along for the ride.
P.S. Sorry for the lack of actual cookies in this post.
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