Yesterday I wrote a letter I had been putting off for a month. In a nut shell, I had to write, in French, to a doctor’s office and ask them why they sent me a bill dating back to May. I didn’t recognize the name. It’s possible I got treatment. It was around the same time I had a thyroid test but the letter didn’t specify anything other than I owed 79 chf (which is simply refunded by my insurance provider).
So why the procrastination? Why all the anxiety to write a very simple letter that in the end took me fifteen minutes to do and resulted in a surprising level of elation? As though it had been bringing me down all week and I hadn’t known it.
I took a walk this morning to think about it and the best I can come up with is that I was forced to do something without instruction. I’m not fluent in French, I had to think carefully about what to write and I know I made mistakes. It’s jarring for me to attempt something and get it wrong. So where does this rigidness come from? wonders Stobby. It’s certainly not genetic.
Last weekend, while Skyping with my brother, he mentioned nonchalantly he wanted to run a marathon before the end of the year.
“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”
“And you’ve been training?”
“I run here and there.”
“Some people train for a whole year. It’s pretty intense. People have died trying to run a marathon.”
“Meh. If I get tired I’ll just stop.”
This is so not me. I’d need to research orthotics, sweat resistance underwear and energy juice before opening the front door. I wanted to ask if he stretched but was afraid of the answer.
I was tempted to pull out the older-sister-knows-best card. Tell him this was something he should take more seriously but I'm glad I didn't. As it turns out, it's something I do way too much of already. He could actually be teaching me.
So maybe I’ll run a marathon in the next two months. I could run alongside him. Nah. On second thought, I’ll just cheer. But in the spirit of spontaneity, I won’t check the weather before I stand out there and do it.