The Death of the Cassette Tape

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those painfully misguided few months when I was seriously considering being a group exercise instructor. Yes, the spandex-wearing, ponytail-bobbing, beat-counting, “come on girls!”-chanting kind. I was under the impression, thanks to well meaning parents and after-school specials, that I could do anything I put my mind to. After I abandoned my English degree and graduated with B.S. in Exercise Science, I was determined to silence the suspicions that I’d regret making that decision for years to come. I printed out cardiokickboxing sets, practiced on my parents’ lanai and took every class I could at the fitness center where I was working. 

If you know me, you can just skip right over this next revelation because it has to be the most glaringly obvious trait of my personality. Turns out, I’m not so perky. Actually, I put a lot of energy into resenting anything that could be interpreted as perky, or, god help me, “bubbly.” It ain’t me. And I have no idea why it took me several failed attempts to lead my own exercise classes to finally accept this fact. In any case, I retired my leotards and tube socks. I think it was then that I understood I wasn’t going to get away with leaving my love of reading and writing in the English building of Florida State. It was in my blood; I could either continue to ignore it or embrace it.

That was almost two years ago. I was a little distracted in the last 17 months planning a wedding and a honeymoon (and helping several friends do the same…there was something in the water), getting a full time job, moving into a new place, getting a puppy, and lots of other fun and not so fun things. I wouldn’t have been surprised if all of those life changes helped me forget that I wasn’t writing. But they didn’t. And that didn’t surprise me either.

I’ve decided I’m not willing to find myself 30 years from now wondering if I could have done it, wondering if this drive means something important and shouldn’t be ignored. I know it’s not the most practical decision, but maybe those are the decisions you know you’ll never regret, no matter where you end up. And who knows, maybe I’ll end up somewhere fabulous without any memory of a 4-count uppercut-jab-kick-squat.