Was listening to my body talk to me this morning. Most of the time it just grunts, creaks, cracks. Today, though, it asked, “You’re gonna keep doing this to us for another ten years, aren’t you?”

Of course not. I don’t bust you up on purpose. I mean, you’re all I got.

“Well, you sure don’t act like it. You ever think about putting some of the load you put on us on that brain of yours?”

I’m trying. Actually, mental strain is a lot harder to deal with than arthritis and sore muscles. So take several seats, body.

And this goes on and on, with nothing ever really getting resolved.

The reason why what most of my body says to me goes in one ear and out the other is, I have this idea that it’s supposed to suffer, this idea that the words ‘work, paycheck, and success’ are grounded in grinding down my body. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. When I think about those three words I immediately sum them up as the result of physical labor. Logically, it’s a crippling mind-set. I mean, my brain, hopefully, will long outlast my body’s ability to get results. And my brain, at least in my own humble opinion, is a pretty good one. It got me this far.

When I hear ‘desk job,’ I cringe inside. Really, it’s fear that’s running the conversations I have with my body. Because I know my limitations when it comes to my body, know how many times I can repeat the same motion before I have to switch hands, know that it will eventually give out on me. What sucks is, I expect that to happen. Like it’s all preordained and I’ll have to sit with it. My brain, on the other hand? I have no idea yet about its limitations. It doesn’t have to be work behind a desk–I’m doing it now, letting it work through my fingers and onto a screen.

“That sounds like heaven,” my body says. “Give it a shot. We’re fucking tired.”

Maybe I will.

“Great. And while you’re at it, stop sucking on those cancer sticks. Remember when we used to run without getting winded? How do you ever expect to play with your children? You gonna roll an oxygen tank out on the playground? You spent all those years educating yourself, reading, writing, got a wall full of degrees, for what? So you can search Indeed for gigs that’ll just break us down even more? Dishwasher, sheetrock worker, warehouse work, food delivery driver.”

There’s nothing wrong with any of those jobs. You think you’re too good to get your hands dirty?

“You’re an idiot.”

Just a few more years, I promise.

“Okay. But just know, it’s not the jobs that’ll kill you. It’s fear. Not that you’re too good for anything. It’s that you think you’re not good enough for everything.”

Yeah.

I know.