Movement Pending

Time to Dance (Eventually)

I want to be that old person in the corner with stories.

Not the cranky “back in my day” kind—more like the cool one, with glitter in their laugh lines and a twinkle that makes the kids inch closer like they’re about to hear something forbidden or fantastic.

I want to be the kind of elder you want to listen to, not because you should, but because there’s magic in the remembering.

I want my library to be already scanned, uploaded, backed up on cloud and paper and in a few hearts, so that when I go, the fire is a candle, not a blaze.

That might be why I blog.

Or write.

Or talk to myself in my journal.

Or talk to you, Reader Who Isn’t Here Yet.

That’s why I keep answering the questions that pop up in my head like popcorn. I used to have to write them down to hear the answer and sometimes I still do. The answers aren’t always right—they’re not permanent—but they’re real at the time.

And that’s something.

Like this idea that I “get up at four.” That’s a story I’ve told myself. Technically, yes, the alarm goes off at four. But do I rise like a Phoenix and take on the day like a productivity superhero?

Nah.

I snuggle a cat named Stromps and play Wordle in the dark. Sometimes Sudoku, sometimes Connections, sometimes Strings, sometimes everything.

My stomach, meanwhile, is like HELLO I AM EATING MYSELF PLEASE HELP and I’m like, shhh I’m solving word puzzles.

In December, I started this fitness thing. Nutrition. Movement. You know, all the heroic shit you do to stay alive and not just alive-alive but like, ready to dance on a rooftop at 70-alive.

And now if I don’t eat immediately in the morning, I dry heave like I’m summoning a demon.

It’s dramatic.

My body is dramatic.

And it deserves better.

So last night—I love how many of my brilliant ideas come at night, when I’m not responsible for implementing them—I had this vision.

Me, tea in hand, laptop or notebook in the other, walking down to the bougie lil fitness studio in my apartment complex, barefoot or in socks (maybe even matching socks), music playing low, just letting my body wake up through movement.

Not a workout. Not a performance. Just dance. Or stretch. Or flop. Or choreograph. Or scribble. Or lie there until something shifts.

I was INTO it.

And then this morning happened. Alarm went off at four. I reached for Stromps. Didn’t get up. Didn’t dance. Didn’t even stretch.

But here’s the thing: I don’t think that idea was bad. I think it was a good idea with bad scaffolding.

Like, I didn’t lay out clothes.

I don’t even know where my notebook is.

And my favorite hoodie is currently 80% cat.

That’s not a lack of motivation—that’s a lack of planning.

So I’m forgiving myself.

Again.

And again.

Because I didn’t fail. I just didn’t arise at four today.

But I will.

Because the motivation? It’s still humming under the surface, like a song that hasn’t started yet. And tomorrow I’ll have the outfit ready. The notebook found. The tea prepped. The playlist cued.

And maybe the day after that I’ll wake up and the only barrier will be remembering how much I wanted to move.

And maybe next week, some kid will ask me about the time I used to dance at four a.m. just for me. And I’ll laugh and say, “Only when I remembered to lay out my clothes.”

And maybe that’ll be enough to keep the library open one more day.