"Flexibility" is my F-word.
You know how when you were a little kid (or if you are like my adorable mom, well into your….ah….late thirties...coughs) when you utter those choice words, you lower your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, a hushhhhhhed, humming helluva utterance that is emitted with feeling...
Yes, flexibility ranks high up there in my vault of (oh so "uh-oh") vocab. As with its more common F-bomb counterpart, even hearing its name audibly can cause my entire body to physically react—shrinking away from its ugly frame, as if I have been struck by a blunt force trauma to the brain. Shivers run up and down my spine as I take the spoken word and slice it apart slowly.
After the initial shock (and retro-active, repugnant revulsion) experienced the moment the entity hits my eardrums, comes the secondary (less immediate—and decidedly more calm) reaction of a running back strategizing my next crucial move. (please do notice the term, RUNNING…lest the irony not be missed here)… My instinct is to flee, creating as much distance between this F-word as is humanly possible—and with the utmost speed! Yet, I am learning to fight this panicked, cowardly urge more often than not these days, and plant my twinkle toes firmly in the hot, Hawaiian sand—and let ‘em burn….melting away that manic mentality as well—the one shouting oh so loud to turn, leave, go, run, and hide from (whispers) the dreaded …CHANGE.
And, as each day I fight that temptation to flee, I grow:
So I’d like to finish this post with a better F-word….freedom…from worry and fret, and from creating ghosts for the future (as I do believe the past has plenty of its own to account for)….and I say bump them all (insert Ross and Monica’s double-fist dramatic diss move (with great hutzpah and pizzazz!) here________ boom boom !))