If you saw my recent re-introductory Vlog at the start of the week, you now that I gave a big, fat, eloquent “boo” to my health as of a late. This is clearly something that’s never been a big shocker- it’s been a rather chronic backslide throughout the years, and although I keep the over-share at a minimum, I’m never completely secretive about anything in my life. Being a writer, by definition, essentially means having the ability to ascertain life’s experiences and hurdles and triumphs and mold them into a visually digestible literary format that only somewhat makes your reader’s gag (choking yet?). Memories become words… tears become punctuations… and all of that magniloquent brilliance.
Lately I’ve been seeking out the words of others to fuel my own internal grapplings with the roller coaster of physicality that is my complaint-filled state at 26 (I am about as big a fan of roller coasters as Lindsay Lohan is of un-punched faces in New York City night clubs). Thus, enter exhibit A:
I don’t just love this quote because it comes from the lyrical stylings of unshaven, sexy Englishmen (how have I not succumbed to this Downtown Abbey trend yet?), but also because it’s true. For me, I hate the constant balancing of medical responsibility (hospital visits, pretending that doctor’s jokes really are funny, etc) versus what I actually want to be doing (smothering my children with enough affection to make them spend the better part of their young adulthood in therapy). Although nothing ever impacts my attentiveness towards said precious offspring, where is the line between extending the quality of life through medicine, and hindering the actual living? (See photos of said living via Insta snapshots below)
Health Sound Off: Riddle me this… which do you think is more important- staying on top of health issues at potential detriment of time spent enjoying, or doing the latter full force while neglecting your health? Ready, go!