Yesterday, me and my gimpy foot finally limped back into the gym after months—and months and months—of excuses. Why the avoidance? Some cocktail of grief over my mom’s passing, a touch of depression, and, let’s be real, the eternal mantra of the lazy: “Busy.” Truth is, if you don’t prioritize a thing, you don’t do it. Period.
And this foot. What’s wrong, Carla? Well, apparently, I… walked too much? Diagnosis per Dr. Google: Old Lady Foot. Which, LOL but also not LOL, has been maddeningly humiliating. Do you know how bleak it feels to struggle just to walk? To limp through life like your body betrayed you? It’s been a constant reminder: strength matters.
Of course, instead of strength training, I’ve been self-soothing with carbs. North Country carbs, from our anniversary trip this past weekend. Which is to say: Polish Princess Bakery croissants… and scones… and one of those giant coffee rolls that could double as a flotation device… and, fine, a baguette. At some point mid-carb-coma, I came to, stuffed the extra loaves in the freezer “for future dinner parties,” and called it “adulting.”
Then, a redemption arc. Driving back from a final walk-through for clients fleeing Massachusetts (welcome to freedom, friends), the whole sky caught fire. Westward, it was red brilliance; eastward, the glow ignited Manchester’s buildings. A rare, cinematic phenomenon. I pulled over in front of Notre Dame Cathedral to snap a few shots, then raced home, burst through the door, yelling for Louis. Together, arm in arm on the porch, we stood as the sun melted into streaks of red, pink, violet, cerise, orange, mauve. I breathed deep, my chest finally unclenching.
Grief, carbs, excuses, broken body—none of it mattered in that moment. Just me, him, God’s gift of light streaking the sky in impossible colors, reminding me that strength and beauty are still here if I choose to see them.
And then: time to make dinner. Sans bread.