I am trapped in my comfort zone. It’s so soft there. So mellow. Like that perfect bed in the boutique hotel I stayed at once in Montreal. The walls are just the perfect shade of cream, the bed pillows are fluffed just so. The tea is neither hot nor cold, always just a little bit lukewarm. I could drink something hotter. I could spike that tea with a shot of something hard and burning, get those juices flowing, start the wheels of creativity spinning.
If only I could be bothered…
My comfort zone plays instagram 24/7 on its creamy walls. It projects a fabulous world of colour and adventure, makeup and fitness and holy shit how will that yogi unknot herself before the day is through? So inspirational! So amazing! I almost want to get up and do it myself. In fact, I will!
Starting tomorrow though…
I’ll just ride the inertia through to the end of the day but tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be all fired up! It’s on tomorrow! Tomorrow is such an exciting place! Everything magical happens there. Weight dramatically lost, novels written, goals attained!
But every time I wake up, it’s still only today. And here I am, still in my comfort zone.
I can see outside the window. The view is spectacular. I see all the things I want to do. Everything I want to accomplish is just there. I can touch it, if I reach out far enough…but then I might fall out the window! Oh God, what would happen then? Surely I’d fall to my death! Or be crippled for life! I’d be a vegetable, just lying there in bed all day, eating all my food through a straw, living vicariously through my own daydreams, imaging all the things I could do if only I had more time more money more contacts.
Damn. That kind of sounds like my comfort zone.
Maybe…maybe I should get up? Maybe I could try? This comfort zone bed is like the softest longest orgasm of a resting place but I’m starting to feel like I’ve slept too long. You know, that groggy, unfocused feeling? Like the lazy Sunday that starts out so well, all day in your PJs, eating all kinds of junk, binge watching Jessica Jones. Then all of a sudden it’s evening and you feel unwashed and grungy and you know your Monday morning’s fucked because who can sleep deeply after a full day of laying prone on your ass?
That’s it. Its time leave this place behind. It’s hard to go, I admit. I know what it looks like here. I know what the temperature is. I know what’s on the menu. But it’s the same every day. And who’s to say that what’s outside isn’t better? I suppose I could fall to my death… but I could also fly.
So I’m leaving. I’m not the jump out the window type, so I’ll make my way through the door. I’m already out the bed, I’ve taken my shower, I’ve put on my war paint, and I’m …shuffling out like an arthritic grandma. But I’ve taken the first steps, and I’m not looking back. You’ve been a blast, comfort zone, but you’re a trap, and I’m too curious about what’s outside. Plus, the more I think about it, the more sure I am: no matter what happens, I’ll find a way to fly.