Self-Care Rule #1: take your own advice

The only thing new is my glove- for size- and a $6 tank top. I had said if I was going to do something for myself: it would be a wonderful thing for my soul, but I would not be spending money- so I opted to play in my best old sneakers. We all have a best old pair…

As someone who works in health and fitness, I know the importance of a good shoe. All too often, I wait to replace my running shoes and it shows up in knee pain, ankle rolls, and general discomfort in my hips and other joints. But frugal [stupid] Chelley decided why not give these Asics, with over 500 miles logged, a chance to play.

 

 

I absolutely loved our first game. I was incredibly nervous, and felt overwhelmed with anxiety, but the hour-long drive there seemed to lessen the impact. Until I parked. Well to be honest, my GPS led me to a dead end street with no parking and then I had to find where to go and I was all flustered… but that’s neither here nor there, because I did find my way to the parking lot- where women gathered to play. With bats and bags and heavily used cleats, this fastpitch league squad immediately sett off my nerves again. But I put my big girl pants on, my tough face, a crooked smile, and walked out to the field.

They put me up to bat first, and I couldn’t seem to find my footing. I dug my toes in, but found myself sliding and uncomfortable at the plate. This is in part because of hitting the batting cage with a small bat, but also having absolutely no tread on my shoes, and being a newbie. A total, day one, Bambi-steps newbie.

 

I struck out, laughed about it and thought, briefly, about running away.  But other hiccups showed up, like being scared of sliding across the grass… I’m older with knee and ankle issues I don’t want to trigger, so I didn’t go for balls I knew I should have. My feet got stuck in their place and I missed a very easy grounder that could have turned into quite a beautiful play. And then more serious issues arose that I certainly was not prepared for. On a force run that I knew would get me out at home, I went as fast and as hard as I could hoping for some heroism. If you know me, you know I love to run. Though my long-distance is slow and steady, I’ve always been a pretty decent sprinter. Seeing the catcher had the ball, I went to slow down knowing I was out, but couldn’t find my footing- instead flipped over her to avoid hitting her with my knee. My elbow took the brunt of it and while it was fine, it was still bleeding. I was embarrassed but brushed it off and moved on, the linger feeling that I was more made to be sitting with a margarita on the couch- ego still fully intact- than on any field of play.

 

My next up at bat was another single, where I sprinted to first base, my lack of tread causing my back foot to not push me on top of the plate but to slide back, forcing my left toe into the bag and me to go flying. I felt like an idiot. I looked like an idiot. This shit HURT. My body and my soul. One fall = going for it. Two falls = hottmess.

It’s not like I was good and fell making some fantastic play; I simply tripped going to first plate. Typically this wouldn’t embarrass me because that’s me- I’m not the most graceful. I’m all legs, sprinting like a baby deer. But I certainly did not expect this amount of insanity when I slipped on the plate. Bloody knees, bruised ego; I wasn’t ready for all of that. I rubbed dirt in the cuts to stop the bleeding and bit the insides of my cheeks instead of wincing.

I assessed the swelling when I got home. The large gash in my left knee a few rough scrapes on my right, swelling and bruising soon-to-come.  And then I looked. I had looked before I started playing, but not where it counted- just to make sure there were no holes in the mesh. The bottom of my shoes we’re nearly smooth on the main impact points of my shoes. I had no grip in the sand, no traction in the wet grass, and now I knew why.

I decided to do something for myself care, but I half-assed it. I decided I wasn’t important enough for a used pair of cleats, and maybe dusting off a pair of baseball pants I got in years prior. See, this was not my first attempt to play softball. I had looked into it before and been too scared to show up. And finally when I showed up, I convinced myself I still wasn’t good enough. In my second hand pants and my old baseball glove, I drove to the field… and then drove away.

 

On this day I showed up. I got out of my car. But I still didn’t care enough about myself to just dive in.

 

So I am taking my own advice and getting proper footwear. I am going to trade in my old football cleats, for a used pair of baseball cleats. I feel immense guilt. I shouldn’t, because the cost of self-care is often not upfront and I know that. Things like booking yourself a massage for $60 , will still cost $80 with a tip. And the gas to get there, hiring a sitter for the kids. The guilt over spending the money at all is real. But knowing afterwards you feel better, [sometimes] makes the expense worth it. Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming and I find myself regretting ever doing anything for me at all.

 

The thing is… these cleats won’t make me better, they will make me safer. I won’t slip… but rest assured I will still trip. At the end this season, I still won’t be able to play very well. I won’t have my own bat or helmet, I may not totally understand the rules of fastpitch or exact positions, but I’m hoping that by taking a little step and wearing the appropriate shoes [as someone who works in health and wellness and fitness should know to do] will make a difference.

 

I know what I have to do to be safe and happy: be physical, because I crave an outlet. But I find executing the right actions to find and fund that activity are impossibly anxiety inducing. Just making sure I feel it’s okay to spend my time and money on the right shoes, or the right equipment, is often as debilitating as going somewhere new alone. I am unable to see how spending any money on myself will do any good for anyone, when we are already in such an immense debt. I am also reminded by my dear friends and family that the fear living is not life; that sometimes one must choose to be happy even when that means being broke. Even if that means facing fear. Even if that means being alone.

 

So I’ll eat the hidden cost of this inexpensive adventure in my life, and make it a little more expensive. Because money on cleats is nothing compared to $20 for 2 boxes of super huge bandaids, a tube of Neosporin, and a super sized bottle of Tylenol. …And two good working knees. Those are priceless!

 

Practicing this self-care has taught me to try new things that make me extremely uncomfortable, and that doing new things alone won’t kill me, unless I’m wearing the wrong shoes.

 

What risks have you taken recently and found a whole lesson underneath that you were not expecting?

UPDATE:
Before posting this, Amazon showed up at my door. As I opened my package, I became grateful for not having the chance to drive to the second hand store this week… my bestfriend’s husband bought me the most LIT cleats ever. So, while I may still be terrible at softball, I’mma look real fancy doing so!