I’m supposed to work out 5 times a week for 30 days. The first two weeks went GREAT! I felt energized and motivated by my budding biceps. Through a feat of mental toughness I powered through each workout and did whatever it took to accomplish my goal no matter how early or how late that had me downstairs doing Jillian Michaels jumping jacks in my living room.
But this week was tough! And I didn't work out.
I grew up in a family where we didn’t curse and I still don’t, especially to my parents. So, in one simple phrase you can imagine exactly how I felt about my week when I told my mom Thursday morning that “I JUST CAN’T GET MY SHIT TOGETHER!” I didn’t have any catastrophic failures but I failed in just about every small way I can possibly imagine—personal and professional. I really just couldn’t do anything right. I really could not get my shit together.
Today is one of those perfect Spring masterpieces and I happened to be in the city for work. As I drove home with the windows down, watching the city breathe and blaring my favorite song, one particular failure-- the work out one-- in an instant, brought a huge dark cloud over my mood. But it dissipated quickly as I had an overwhelming sense of sweet sweet failure. The best kind of failure possible—the kind where you just feel human and messed up and 100% OK with that.
I (who I am as a person) am OK, I’m good enough.
After that, the sun shone even brighter than before. I cranked up the music even louder, my hair tossed in the gritty (wonderful) Philadelphia wind, on a gritty (horrible) Philadelphia highway and I've never felt better.