How I Learned to Start Living and Kick The Used To Blues

I've noticed lately that more and more, the phrase, "oh, I used to do that" seems to be popping out of my mouth.

"Wendy, is that a banjo? Do you play?"

"Yeah, kind of. I used to play alot. I actually used to be in a bluegrass band, if you can believe it. It's kind of funny, I used to hang out with this big group of musicians and they all called me Banjo Wendy. I didn't play for years, then I started playing again when I was pregnant with Zeke. But eventually then I got too big to hold the banjo comfortably, so I had to stop. I really need to start playing more often. My picking skills are so pitiful these days."

"I've been thinking about trying yoga. What do you think?"

"Oh, you'd love yoga. I used to do yoga all the time -- there was this great studio in Atlanta, near Georgia Tech, and I used to take ashtanga classes 2 or 3 times a week. I always felt spent but amazing afterwards. I should start again. We should go to a class together."

"Hey, I saw a tennis racket in your garage. Do you play?"

"Yeah, though it's been awhile. I used to play competitively in a league in Atlanta, but I haven't really played regularly since before I got knocked up. I need to start playing again."

"Wow, that's a beautiful bike!"

"Thanks! I actually haven't ridden in almost two years -- first I separated my shoulder, and then I got pregnant. But I used to ride all the time. My good friend Michelle and I used to do this great ride in southern Fulton County near the Atlanta airport on weekends. It was out in the country and we'd do 25 or 35 mile rides by these gorgeous farms with rolling hills and crowing roosters. I really miss those rides. I need to call Michelle."

Notice a pattern forming?

Apparently, I used to be a really active, interesting person who did all kinds of cool stuff. And now I'm this boring old mom who used to do all kinds of cool stuff, but let it all fall by the wayside.

But I've decided that I'm calling "bullshit" on myself. I'm only 38 years old. I'm in fantastic health. No way am I at a point where all I can do is look back on all the fun I used to have. Fuck that.

So two weeks ago, I started a weekly tennis game with my neighbor, Anne (who also used to play regularly). She's in the military and has access to great courts at one of the local bases, so we went and played a couple of sets. We were a little rusty, but after playing for a while our shots improved, and we had an amazing time.

In the middle of one game, she said, "we're not even done today and already I can't wait to play again next week."

I knew exactly how she felt. I love playing tennis. It's so much fun, and such a great way to spend time with a friend. Why had I stopped for so long? We played again this past Saturday, and again had a blast. Even after only one week, our play had definitely improved. We're going to look into getting a lesson with a pro to work on some of our rough spots, and we'll play again this Saturday. We're also going to try to catch a yoga class sometime this week.

Then yesterday, I got on my bike again.

I have this gorgeous racing bike that I bought for way too much money about 8 summers ago, when Lance was early in his string of Tour de France victories and the buzz around him and around the Tour was building to a frenzy. My buddy Michelle and I rode all the time together. The perfect Saturday: wake up early, meet at her house at 6 or 6:30, ride in the countryside for a few hours, and then chill out and read for the rest of the day on the porch.

I loved those rides. I love that bike.

That bike that's been sitting disassembled in a box in the garage since we arrived in Hawaii. And yes, I know I had an excuse, having been pregnant and all, but Zeke is 8 months old. He's been out of me almost as long as he was in me. Why did it take me so long to take the bike to the shop and have it put together? Why?

I have no idea. Because yesterday, I got on my bike, not having ridden in almost two years, and felt incredible. I went out and rode 20 miles without even realizing how far I was going. I saw parts of the island I've never seen, because even though they're practically a stone's throw from where I live, when I turn out of my neighborhood in the car, I always turned left instead of right.

But on a bike, you feel a certain freedom to go where you want, deviate from a planned route, and go exploring in a way you don't in a car -- certainly not with gas over $4 a gallon. So that road up that hill that looked like it had a pretty view? Check it out. That route that you suspected led to a gorgeous neighborhood right on the western edge of Pearl Harbor? See what's there.

So I go. I go as far as my lungs and legs will take me. And I feel incredibly alive.

Because I'm done with used to.