“The only easy day was yesterday.” – Navy SEALS
This week my routine changed quite a bit. It's an offshoot of major changes in my life in the last six months when I left field work as a Team Lead for a position that involves suits, meetings, and desks. I miss the field work, I miss my old team, but I love being home every night with Partner in Grime, and being able to turn my phone off when I go to sleep.
But the downside to that was not mental, but physical, as I was no longer walking through all kinds of terrain and bending down a lot. Plus getting to a gym when I leave the house and don't come home for 12 hours with traffic isn't a priority. (I have a house/dog sitter who checks on the place during the day and plays with and walks Abby Normal the Lab). I found myself turning into a desk potato. I hadn't gained weight. I was just getting soft where I'm not supposed to BE soft and left to my own devices I'd walk the dog, do a couple push ups and then a couple of 12 ounce curls. It was enough to keep me in my old jeans, but not enough where I was truly fit.
She's drop dead gorgeous and when she showed up with the German accent and a shirt that said "I'm the trainer, you're the victim" I couldn't help but laugh. But she's awesome, and after an hour workout when her helping my form and working up a plan for the next 12 weeks while she'll be working with me, I feel like I can kick butt again, I felt like I'd done something positive for myself. I still have a few years before I turn 60 but I want to make sure I go into retirement able to handle whatever life throws my way - be it a long walking or running event for cancer awareness or simply bugging out in an emergency.
Don't hold my breath. Breathe out as I lift, breathe in as I release. I repeat to myself as we finished up.
I was told to expect some soreness. The next day even my hair hurt.
It wasn't my usual store but a big chain place that was by my bank so I went to grab just to grab milk and eggs. What caught my eye was all the people on scooters, more than half a dozen, only one of them elderly, none sporting casts or braces or crutches or the things I had to have with me after my meniscus surgery and my two weeks of scooter days. I found that rather unsettling.
In that moment I heard words my Dad always told me - you quit moving you die.
Even at almost 96 - and in declining health, every morning he rides his exercise bike and does stretching exercises with his exercise ball, followed by 3 reps of weight work outs. He's had a stroke - he's had cancer - I truly believe the only reason he's still here as he gets up every morning committed to MOVE. The firearm by the door has been replaced by a baseball bat (he got to the point he couldn't safely handle a weapon after the stroke) and I would NOT want to be on the receiving end of that if Dad, a career military police office, went to protect and defend. It took him a Great War, the the loss of a baby and then a wife to fully realize the taste and savor of peace and he's not going to give it up easily and he does all he can to make sure he is as capable as he can be.
It's about having the ability to move to save your life there in that moment when you spot danger and your heart stills, emptying out of all but courage and what you are capable off. It's that moment when you know fear.
Fear can come when least expected. It can be flat eyes that catch yours from a darkened stand of trees, the next house too far away. It can be the portent of a funnel cloud when shelter is many yards away and seconds are all you have. It can be the sound of breaking glass from the front of your home. It can be working out in a place fit only for serpents and snakes, closure not always involving dry flat land, and hearing that sound, one you'll never forget, like the splash of hands on the water. You look at the water too close to you you and there's nothing to see but the fluid gleams of reflected stars that suddenly scurried and vanished and you realize, even as you signal the backup LEO's with weapons, that the blood has attracted a gator
I'm not going to get into the use of weapons to save your life, as anyone that reads here knows my stance on that and anyone that makes the mistake of kicking in my front door is going to find that the laser dot that blossoms on their forehead IS the universal language of NO.
But there are times you might be where you don't have a firearm or are not yet comfortable with one. I avoid "gun free zones" like the plague, but what about schools, certain work places - post offices, etc?. Or what if someone is lying in wait and you are physically grabbed before you can draw (you will be amazed how quickly someone can close 4-6 feet in the dark).
You can't do that if you are both out of shape and afraid.
I was a volunteer at a family violence center for many years. Those of you who have read my book "Saving Grace" know why. It's not necessarily a pleasant task at times, but one that needs to be done, by those that care or who have seen it firsthand. That type of violence doesn't just happen to the poor, the uneducated the needy. We see women of all walks of life in there that just share one thing in common, that they have been scared for so long that they just get used to being that way. Sometimes you'd just find them in their room in the warm and cozy shelter home, in the dark. You can feel people in a dark room. You don't need to see them. Sometimes they're just asleep, catching up on that precious commodity, sleep where you know someone who cares is watching over your safety.
So, there in the safety of the shelter, if their bedroom door was not blocked you'd just knock and say a soft hello and tell them you'd wait outside. They'd sit there in the dark of their ruined life, sometimes with a chair propped up against the door, afraid that even in this refuge they would be found, viewing the world with an indomitable and implacable weariness. But soon they would come out, into the light, amazed that with tools and training, they could learn to live a life of comparative calm. You would hear the stories, stories you know as they've been told so often and so hard that the words no longer were words, but were invisible welts the skin would always carry.
But even if being strong and focused is no guarantee, I can guarantee that if you are NOT strong and focused, something one day is going to hit you like a freight train, and you are not going to be prepared physically.
Then at night, I'll lay upon the bed, not just for sleep but to gather strength as runners do, the window closed against the city, the clock chiming at midnight as strong and as clear as glass that shines in iron darkness. And I will breathe in clear and deep, taking up a big rush of air into my chest as I flex newly worked muscles into larger and stronger form, my eyes opening and staying that way, taking in all that is around me, that is my safety, before shutting my eyes to sleep. When I sleep, it will be in quiet and safety, on the nightstand, my husbands keys, a .45 with hollow points, and a tube of pain relief gel.
It's more than pain, it's more than courage or will - it's awareness derived from every drop of sweat on my brow, every drop of blood on my gloved hands. It's recognition that suddenly blossoms as if a flower released from a vacuum. It's taking my life into my own hands, not trusting it's protection to the impotent logic and mantra of peace that has betrayed us again and again,
Because whether the best option is fight OR flight, I want to be as prepared for it as I can be.
Don't hold my breath. Breathe out as I lift, breathe in as I release.