Two years ago I was in great shape. In a matter of two months I lost 30 pounds and didn’t even know how I did it, and wasn’t expecting to. I had self-confidence and pride. I didn’t know what I wanted to do but I had some sort of plan as to how I was going to figure it out. And I had the best summer of my life because I was determined to live those two months for me and nobody else. And I did.
And I’ve been trying to achieve the same thing every following year. It hasn’t worked. But I think I’ve finally figured it out. Every year, I try and recreate that amazing summer I had. And it wasn’t until a drunken evening last Friday that it was brought to my realization that the reason people have “the best summer of their life” is because it’s the best, not one of the best. There’s only supposed to be one, that’s what makes it the best, after all.
I dream about the July and August months all year in anticipation for the warm weather and happiness that will for sure ensue, I contemplate. Yet, over and over again, my dream gets shattered and I refuse to take a hint and give up on that feeling.
I think I finally have though. I’m done. I’m just going to live my life again as I did that fateful summer and perhaps that is what will get me the fun loving summer again. But I won’t count on it.
I remember coming home after work to an empty cottage, and not taking the opportunity to go out and I would just relax with myself and my journal. I would write and then disconnect the satellite and connect the VCR and do my twenty minute Yoga tapes. Yoga – I actually did that. Perhaps that’s where I lost my thirty pounds.