I don’t miss sugar, I don’t. Nor carbs, or eating out. I just miss the time I wasted thinking I didn’t have it in me to do something this extreme. But here we are.
I don’t need an emotional bellhop. I carry my own baggage.
If this works, if my committed loyalty to staying accountable to myself, this new way of eating, and remembering that I could be staving off heart or stroke in my later years – then let’s go.
You can choose to go to bed early, opt out of that gathering, take another day to do the laundry, buy your meal through the drive-thru, spend time at the spa/salon/massage clinic and do it without guilt, or sin.
“I bought you a tree,” he said simply.
And finally – after the dust settles – how do I come to terms with saying goodbye to the person I once told myself I’d die for?
However, same goes if I was at the beach. I wore this two-piece all last summer. From New Brunswick, to the Picton shoreline. Swimming, is swimming, is swimming, is swimming. Less you dive in with your clothes on, I suggest you look away.
We, as a society. We, as spectators. We, as the collective. We, as those who read the stories, hear the rumours, watch the news wheels. We have an opportunity to speak up, speak out.
And where I am? Among the reeds of big ideas and little follow-through. It sometimes reeks like a metaphor for my life.
You are a part of history.
You have graduated in a historical year of triumph, of uncertainty, of revolution.
You are an integral cog in the wheelhouse of a generation who are narrating what we will read in our history books, and teach the children who come after you.