Before I became a wife and mother, I used my apartment only for sleeping and taking a bath. (I realize now that if I were any smarter back then, I’d have saved so much on rent by getting a smaller place, big enough only to fit a bed with a shower head installed over it.) Out of my apartment, I was at work. Done with work, I prowled the city and north and south of it for adventures. I had such itchy feet that whenever they were idle, they’d send signals to my brain to get rid of the itch. And I’d take off and get lost; to the beach, to a bed and breakfast tucked in the foothills of Banahaw (which, incidentally, is where I met my husband, so getting lost isn’t all that bad), to a “mall” in Iloilo.
I was constantly trying new things, going to new places.
Then I got married and had babies.
And since baby number two came, it seems the only new thing I’ve done is taste my daughter’s cough medicine to find out why she raises hell whenever we try to give it to her. Diapers, drool, nursery school, hubby’s quirks, and doctor’s appointments have moved in and parked on my adventuring shoes (flip-flops now, since the last time I wore shoes was in 2007). My bottom has carved out a comfortable existence on our couch (when it’s not flying all over the place chasing the kids) and it has raised a consensus with the rest of my body parts that everything is peachy keen where they sit and they would like to rest on upholstery forever.
So consider this blog my attempt to nudge awake that love for adventure – I used to constantly challenge myself to get out of my comfort zone, if only just to make my world a bit bigger. And now, I’ll start again. Beginning this week, and for the next 52 weeks until I complete a year, I will do something new. It may be trivial – “For this week, my new thing would be eating ube-flavored taho.” – or huge – “My new thing this week will be flying with my family to Yemen.” But I will do it. I originally planned to make it one new thing every day. Right before I collapsed on the bed that night after wrestling with my daughter for our nightly taking-of-the-cursed-vitamins ritual, I conceded and made my aim once a week. There is, after all, a threshold of pain, and I reach mine at around 5 in the afternoon.
For someone who used to (secretly) refer to herself as “ningas cogs” (short for “ningas cogon”), a year-long project such as this is a big challenge. Especially since, unlike a work-related project, it’ll just be myself who’ll be breathing down my neck to get it done.
So then, good luck to me. And good luck to you, who’ll witness my attempts at getting off the couch. Now how the heck will I begin?