uncool
When I was in primary school this girl in my class had a sleepover. She was the ‘cool’ girl, because she had really long, straight hair, both gold AND silver glitter jelly sandals, and her mum put cool snacks in her lunch like animal crackers with fluorescent icing (which in hindsight tasted like dick but back then were the ’it’ lunchbox treat). My hair wasn’t as long as hers, Mum made all my clothes and I wore sensible black roman sandals and brought giant wedges of homemade cake for morning tea. This was obviously amazing, but for some reason ‘back then’, anything home made was the epitome of uncool, because it implied you couldn’t afford to just buy shit like a normal (lazy) person, and had to actually make things like cakes and clothes yourself. Ironically, 25 years later this bitch woulda been rubbished for her processed snacks and piece of shit Kmart shoes, and I woulda been on trend as fuck. But whatever. In 1993, I wasn’t cool, and she was.
Her name was Esther (and still is, this memory caused me to look her up on Facebook and yes, she’s still alive, and still way cooler than me because her profile pic isn’t even of her and her name is like a cool not-actual-name-name. Mine is my actual name, and my profile pic is actually me. What a loser.) When we were seven years old sleep-overs were obviously the coolest thing to do with your friends for your birthday, before you discovered re-filling your boyfriend’s parents vodka with water after drinking the previous contents, and hand jobs. Esther always had the best parties, I think because her mum let them watch movies that may (and did) contain sexual references, and probably eat a fuck load of store bought tomato sauce. I have to mention here that this is a point of contention in my childhood, as our sauce was homemade, and whenever I got to go over to a friend’s place (not Esther’s, obviously) for tea I would practically drink the manufactured (and amazing) version in my excitement. Anyway. Of the 12 girls in our class, she invited everyone. Except me. She made a big show of hand delivering (store-bought) invites to the other girls in front of me, and spent the weeks leading up to her birthday talking about nothing else. I was devastated. Tearfully I asked her if I could come (cringe) and she told me her Mum had said she wasn’t allowed anymore than a total of 12, including her. Makes sense. For all of you reading this, you’re either thinking ‘fuck that mole’, or, you ARE an Esther yourself in which case *double fingers*.
The weird thing was, as a kid I had this extreme fear of staying the night at someone’s house. (Please don’t read anything dark into this, I know this makes it sound like I was molested but I 100% wasn’t. Remember, I didn’t even get INVITED to the sleepovers in the first place.) Every time I tried to stay at a friend’s place I would freak the fuck out around 8pm, cry like a loser and get Mum to come pick me up. I hated sleepovers. I hated being in any bed but my own (and still do, FYI) I hated sharing a room with anyone, and, to be honest, Esther was kind of basic, besides the sandal envy. The reason I was so upset was because I felt like I didn’t belong, and I didn’t know why. It was a blatant ‘YOU CAN’T SIT WITH US’, no explanation, just ‘no, not you’. Childhood memories are a cunt, because no matter how distant they are, when you’re encountered with a similar experience in your adult life it triggers an absolute wave of twenty-year-old pain, and you feel like a pathetic little girl again, dying to stay up til 11pm making friendship bracelets, playing Twister, and watching ‘Spice World’. You’re probably thinking, HOW the fuck is she gonna relate this to exercise, and here’s how:
Belonging.
I had a really hard time deciding whether to cross over to ‘the dark side’ of Weightlifting and try and just be average at one sport rather than two. Despite making this decision for a number of solid reasons, namely the overall health of my body and mind, the thing I struggled with the most was the thought of no longer belonging to the athletic sub-culture of CrossFit that I had so closely aligned my identity with since I became relatively serious about exercise. I’ve only trained CrossFit for a couple of years but had immersed myself so completely in it that it was really hard to imagine doing anything else. The gym I trained at felt like my home and the people in it my family, so the thought of no longer being there every day for the PRs, hilarious fails, dick jokes, frequent smiles and occasional tears (generally mine), was heartbreaking. I recently read (Brenè Brown, Braving the Wilderness) that truly belonging is to belong to both no place and everywhere, at the same time. Um, what? were my initial thoughts, but the more I turned those words over in my head, the more it made sense. You don’t need to belong to any specific group, or place. You can choose to be who you are, what you are and to be wherever you want (except Esther’s parties). You don’t have to be a CrossFitter, a Weightlifter, or even an athlete, to define yourself. You don’t have to be ‘a’ anything at all. You can just choose to show up, (not at things you’re not invited to, obviously, but like, metaphorically, in life) and be yourself, and you don’t need an invitation to do that.
It’s not easy, but after dealing with so much anxiety around this decision and people’s resulting opinions, I’ve decided to just do what I want when I want, and give a whole lot less fucks. The main reason that I work so hard on being better and developing mental strength is for the times that I encounter an Esther or have to make a hard decision which makes me feel uncertain and threatens that sense of belonging that becomes a safety net. It’s easy to be strong and certain when everything around you IS strong and certain. You don’t need yoga and relaxation techniques and oils and meditation and affirmations and gratitude and intentions when shit is strong and certain. But you can’t get to the real gold without mining through a fuck load of bullshit, whether its being left out of a sleepover, or an actual, real-world grown up problem.
You can’t go through life afraid to change sports or gyms and go after what you truly want because you’re scared someone will be mean to you, or that you won’t belong. It doesn’t matter. You might be that Reebok-clad weirdo awkwardly lurking between sets, before becoming too restless and doing 50 GHDSU for time in the corner, but that’s OK, that’s you, and you don’t need an invitation to be yourself.
Brave the wilderness with your homemade cake and your roman sandals, and belong wherever the fuck you want.
