Escape

Ever since I can remember I fantasized about running away. When I was little it was the classic "put all my shit into a knapsack and take off with a sandwich" type daydream. As an adult it become "don't show up to work, but keep on driving till I hit Disneyland." Now days it has turned into "keep driving till you hit Canada or Mexico."

I hate what the United States has become. We are an oppressed nation ruled by a nazi who is stripping away women's rights as fast as I can blink. Although we started wheeling that way long before the human cheeto was sworn in. Roe vs Wade was overturned right under a Democratic president's nose. And a female VP I might add. 

Women are second class citizens here. Of course I want to run away. I'm guessing most women with a half a brain are currently daydreaming about it if not actively planning it. 

I used to think about having a precious little beach house in Monterey, CA. One of my favorite places. I love the unique wildlife there and the weather. Then later it turned to thoughts of Hawaii. Having a cottage tucked in the rainforest with wild geckos climbing my walls. Steps from the beach of course where I could snorkel every day.

Now I just think about anywhere but here.

My husband doesn't get it. Never did. He's incredibly sensible, rooted, grounded, determined, practical and let's face it. An upper class white man who works a corporate job. The US is made for him and men like him. Men who just keep their nose to the grindstone for the sake of their family. Who have a beefy 401K because they planned ahead for retirement. And lucky for me, because I am not and have never been that type of person. I think of myself as a kite and he's the little boy holding my string. Without him I would have been sucked up by a storm or eaten by a tree for sure. 

But man do I like to soar. And from up here I can see the whole world, not just our little patch of sky.

Dreams and Reality

I often lay in bed and question what I can and cannot do. I picture myself going for a run. Or even just walking around my block. I ask myself if I'm sure I really can't do these things. When was the last time I tried? How do I know that I can't do it unless I give it a go?

In my head I strap on my tennis shoes (that now belong to my husband because we have the same size feet and he's... well... able bodied.) Then I go for a light jog around my neighborhood just like I used to.

Suddenly I'm no longer running, I'm surfing (something just as realistic). I'm up on a long board alone zipping over clear teal water. I wave hello to the fish and turtles under me. 

Next it's stairs. How many stairs can I climb? By myself? While holding the rail? Not at all? I picture myself in a stadium zipping up endless steps. I'm wearing short bike shorts and looking like a trainer from Biggest Loser (and not the contestant body I currently have).

When I wake up I decide to try something out.
I don't strap on my tennis shoes, or scrounge up a surfboard.
But I eye our kitchen step stool. The one with the big handle.
I figure I can go up and down that and it can count as a "step."
How many can I do?

Well... Without holding onto the handle I can go up and down 4 times. Four steps on my own. Holding onto the handle I can manage 7 (which impressed me!) Seven steps, but I feel my arm and leg muscles burn for about two hours after. Like I was surfing. Not on a kitchen stool.

I like knowing my physical limits. It helps me mentally cope with being a chronically ill woman. It can also help me when communicating with my doctors. In the past when I was asked how many steps can I walk up my answer was always "I don't know, I avoid them."

I'm sure the answers will change, but for now I know where I stand. What my body is capable of. I shudder to think of underestimating myself in any way. Avoiding things just because I think I can't do them.

Maybe tonight I'll dream of scuba diving?