Do or donut. There is no fry.

Today I’m thinking about short-term comfort versus long-term rewards. 

Right now, I’m that drowning swimmer grabbing at air, desperate to keep my head above water. 

I’m that Indiana Jones-ish adventurer mired in quicksand, clawing at tufts of grass, tree branches, anything, anything! just get me back on solid ground. 

I'm exaggerating just a little. 

In reality, I just had second breakfast and am considering a third. I’m lounging on my couch, spacing out one minute, guiltily searching out motivational quotes to get me moving the next, and craving donuts like you wouldn’t believe, the sugary fried ones with that sweet/oily aftertaste that makes me think of hardening arteries. 

If I had one of those delectable treats right now, I’d eat the crusty outside first, careful nibbles all the way around. Then once I’d gotten the thing all undone, I’d plop the entirety of the chewy, floury insides directly into my now over-salivating maw. Yum.  I can almost taste the fatty goodness. 

On August 1, I made a promise that I’d move with intention every day for the entire month Last week in a fit of what I thought at the time was inspiration but was in truth just me being stupid, I wrote a post about that goal. And now, because I committed in writing, I must continue with the intentional movement stuff until August 31 or I look like the worst person ever, a jerk who doesn’t follow through. Yeah. I know nobody will care whether I reach my goal but me. But hey, self-respect matters. 

But I don’t feel like moving today. I want to stay in my pajamas. Read books. Pat cats. Stare at dusty furniture and say, “I should do something about that.” Then space out instead. 

And yet, I hate people who talk a big talk and have nothing to show for it. I know those people. I’ve been that person. I’ve heard the excuses. I’ve used the excuses. 

It’s easier to laze on the couch. It’s easier to choose the donut. 

But here’s the thing. I hate easy. 

To write all this took some effort. First, I had to sit on the couch for, like, forever, and think about things that had nothing to do with writing until finally I thought about writing. Then, I had to think about not writing then again about writing then about eating then about sleeping then about feeding the cats then about fricking intentional movement which is stupid then about whining then about writing which can be like whining but in public and forever if I posted it which could prove to be motivating or embarrassing but at least I’d get something done today but do I really care about getting anything done today because why does every day have to be a thing why does every day need to be productive and what does all of this mean, and then I got overwhelmed with the stupidity of all the stupid thoughts and finally, being completely irritated with the fact that I was full of ennui and hating that word because it is preposterous and bloated with self-importance and why am I even wasting time on any of this, I forced myself off the couch and into a chair. 

While I was making that move, I grabbed a glass of water and a second cup of coffee. No donut though. I don’t buy donuts except for maybe once a year, and that’s at a special place in Maine that brings back fond memories, none of which are connected to the actual eating of donuts. 

And because the memories involved me and my family and being a little kid, some music came to mind because my parents were both avid pianists.

I started humming this particular song. Picture me, chubby-cheeked, braids, front toothless, snug up against my dad -- corduroys, velour pullover, buzzcut,  on the piano bench in the good room -- early 1960s French Provincial gold meets second floor tenement, blithely singing along at top form -- likely off-key -  while he plays one of my favorite kid songs, Frank Sinatra's High Hopes: 

Everyone knows an ant can't

move a rubber tree plant

but he's got high hopes. 

He's got high hopes. 

He's got hot apple pie

in the sky hopes. 

So, yay me. I’m upright and now I’m thinking good thoughts. 

Oops there goes another rubber tree plant. 

Forward is a pace. 

Geez. I’d kill for a donut though.