So, last month I bought a punching bag.
I’ve always liked the idea of being able to punch something when I get mad, or frustrated, but I’ve never done much with that idea; however, after a conversation with my brother (you know, THAT conversation) about his lack of helping me in dealing with my mom, the notion of a punching bag became an even better idea than ever.
I looked around for one that could stand alone and that wouldn’t take up too much room and I found one I like quite a bit. I don’t know a damned thing about boxing so I watched a few YouTube videos and made up a little routine for myself.
I read somewhere that just 10 minutes of getting your heart rate up helps you burn calories and keeps your metabolism revved up so it continues burning calories for next hour. I figured, I could beat the shit out of a bag for 10 minutes, then I could sit on the couch and watch The Blacklist while my calories burn away. Easy-peasy.
Can I just say for the record, I was wrong? I was lucky to get one and half to two minutes out of my weak, little girl arms.
During those initial one and a half minutes, I hit the bag a lot and I hit it hard.
Recently, every time I hit the bag, I hit it for every reiteration of the same question(s) my mom has been repeating to me over the last month or so, and I hit it every time I think about how cruel life is that such an intelligent woman can be relegated to asking the same question about the same thing in so many different iterations, over and over and over…
The latest question(s) surround this ivy my mom has growing in her bathroom. She’s been asking me some form of the same question about that damned ivy for almost two months now, mostly in our every evening conversation:
Mom: I was going to ask you something…oh, did you say you wanted that ivy in the bathroom? It’s getting close to climbing the medicine cabinet!
Me: No, mom. I don’t want it. Why don’t we get some cuttings from it and re-plant those? Then we can move it out of the bathroom and away from your medicine cabinet.
Mom: No. I don’t want to cut it. Maybe I’ll ask the ladies during bowling next week.
Me: Okay mom. But if no one wants it and you don’t want it anymore, I think we can just get rid of it.
Mom: No! I’ll find someone who wants it.
We have some different vein of that same conversation every night, but the gist of it is that she doesn’t want to cut it and I don’t want the damned thing. One of these days, I’m going to go over there while she’s bowling, cut it down, and either give the cuttings away or throw it out. Then, when she notices that it’s gone and asks me if I took it, I can say yes without lying. Is it shitty of me to do away with the ivy just to see where our next conversation will take us?
On the other hand, that scrawny, leafless, water-rooted ivy has managed to make its way from the countertop, up the wall, and over the medicine cabinet. That shitty, little ivy has managed to find a way to keep growing, despite the fact that it’s a bare bones, almost nothing plant. It’s lost all its leaves and it’s rooted in a stilted, little bottle of water that might have killed another plant, and yet it thrives in its own little world. What right do I have to cut it up and do away with it?
I suppose this means I will continue to have this same conversation with my mom, and I will continue to punch my bag, gradually working my way up to 10 minutes, then 15 minutes, and God forbid, longer than that, as I pound away the frustration of these every day conversations. The ones, I fear, that will become more commonplace over the next few years of my mom’s, my aunt’s, and my own life.
I enjoy reading and have blogged in the past about travel and books. My latest blog is a vanity blog. I write about whatever comes to mind, specifically, things I think I need in life. Hope you enjoy!