On Refusing to Quit

When I was nearing my 7th birthday, Mom and Dad let me in on a big, exciting surprise:

"We've signed you up for piano lessons!"

I wasn't all that excited. I wanted baton-twirling, like my friends had. Piano held no interest for me. But Mom and Dad were not moved by my whining, my crying, or my melodramatic proclamations of refusing to go along with this plan. So I went.

I did everything in my power to prove to them that they were making a huge mistake, and wasting their money, too. My teacher probably dreaded our weekly half-hour lessons. I would whine to my parents how much I hated playing piano, how much I wanted to quit. I always got the same response.

"Coopers aren't quitters."

Well, great. Just dandy. Tell that to a drama queen 8-year-old.

We all know what happened there. We moved to Folsom, I got a new teacher. Mrs. Heindmarsh was wonderful and before you can say "arpeggio," I was taking up clarinet, singing, and all kinds of musical endeavours. I now proudly hold a degree in music.

The whole point, of course, is that I was taught at a very early age that quitting isn't an option. See things through. Don't give up. Finish what you started. I finally "quit" piano lessons when I left for college, and having a weekly lesson was no longer feasible, but I never did quit playing.

There have been many, many moments in the last six weeks that have made me cry. I have rolled my eyes at G. the Meanie, told him I hate him (promptly followed by, "I don't mean that...") given him the finger when his back is turned, and made God-only-knows-how-many sarcastic remarks. I have whined, I have complained. But I haven't quit. And I'm proud of that.

It doesn't matter that I had to stop and lose my lunch behind the gym on Friday--I still finished the planned mile-and-a-half of running and power walking. It doesn't matter that this morning I woke up feeling like an 80-year-old woman, all creaky and groany--I still dutifully saddled up on the treadmill and went for the gold. I couldn't run. Hell, I could barely manage 3.5 miles per hour without holding on to the bar for dear life. My body protested every step, and no amount of stretching was going to make today's workout any easier.

But I did it anyway.

Summer came to visit yesterday. We spent a lot of time catching up and discussing the most pertinent news items in our lives at the moment. Both of us are working on weight loss and fitness, so that took up quite a bit of conversation. Summer just shook her head when I told her about Friday's vomit-inducing run. "I would have quit," she said. I searched for a reply, finally coming up with, "I wanted to, Summer. But...I couldn't."

I've reached a point in this bizarre Odyssey in which I can't go back. I feel too good about what I am doing to stop doing it now. I can't find enough words to describe how badly I wanted to walk away from G. on Friday, telling him to "fuck off" and leave me to barf in peace. But if I walk away, if I give up, I'd not be letting him down. I'd be letting myself down. I've come too far to do that.

So I heave, I groan, I cry. And then I pick myself up and get back to it.

Coopers aren't quitters.