This is not intended to be a “Woe is me” kind of column. It’s more like a “Heed my advice or you could end up like me” column.
A number of years ago, someone shared with me a website that specializes in demotivation. At despair.com, you’ll find books, mugs and posters the exact opposite of anything you might find at a Tony Robbins conference.
The poster we laughed at most was of hands, piled one on top of another, with the caption “Meetings: None of Us is as Dumb as All of Us.”
A few struck a nerve but one stood out then as much as it does now.
As the bow of what could be the Titanic or the Edmund Fitzgerald sticks out of a vast body of water, the caption reads: “Mistakes: It Could Be that the Purpose of Your Life is Only to Serve as a Warning to Others.”
So my friends, here comes my warning: Listen to your gut.
That is, unless you’ve had five-alarm chili, pizza with extra pepperoni, jalapeños and anchovies, or macaroni salad that has been sitting in the sun all afternoon at your family reunion; those all involve another kind of gut listening.
I’m talking about the times your gut tells you, “Hey! This is not a good idea … Hello up there. Maybe you don’t want to do what you think you want to do … Who cares if your friends will be disappointed? Just say no.”
For a people-pleaser like me, this has been very hard. Especially when my gut tells me the last one.
I once jumped into the ocean for a snorkeling excursion when I didn’t even know how to swim. When I screamed out that confession, I think on my second time resurfacing, I was “ponied” to shallow water where I learned firsthand that coral has razor-sharp edges that act like machetes when you try to dog-paddle across it.
More recently — and I can’t believe I’m admitting this — I drove an hour to see a plastic surgeon for a consultation that I did not want to have, just because I couldn’t bear to disappoint my friend who had made the appointment after I told her that I didn’t like my neck.
I stewed about it the entire way there. As my friend waited, I tried to smile while I filled out a stack of medical forms and questionnaires, paid the consultation fee and had before-and-after pictures taken. All this just because I didn’t listen to my gut and say no!
Now I’m out $100, there are hideous pictures of me in a “before” file somewhere and I still hate my neck because I’m not going to get plastic surgery.
For days, I ruminated about that life lesson and vowed the next time my gut told me no, I would listen.
Until April 16.
I was supposed to go horseback riding with some well-meaning girlfriends who encouraged me to get back in the saddle.
I had become more than a little hesitant because the last two times I rode my horse, Grey, I had fallen off. Both times were stupid mistakes on my part because I was being more of a passenger than a rider. Thankfully, in both spills I ended up with nothing more than a bruised hip and ego, and a good bite out of my tongue on the second fall.
I was lucky, though. My friend who was riding next to me during episode 2 also fell from her horse, and broke five ribs and her collarbone.
And so on the morning of April 16, when my gut told me to stay home and do housework and laundry instead of riding my friend’s horse — who was “bomb proof” and a horse “anybody can ride, even a 3-year-old” — I should have paid attention.
I didn’t even listen when the Tom Petty channel on Sirius radio was playing the song Take Out Some Insurance as I pulled out of my driveway.
Actually, I did listen because when it dawned on me what he was singing, I wondered if it was a sign. He wasn’t singing American Girl or Runnin’ Down a Dream, he was singing a song I’ve never even heard of before.
And, irony of ironies, I didn’t have any insurance. But that’s another story and would make a good letter to the editor.
Maybe I should’ve waited to see if the next song was Free Fallin’. Instead, I tuned in the ’70s channel and heard Shake Your Booty by KC and the Sunshine Band, and The Bridge was playing James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend, so I shrugged it off.
Two out of three is a sign. Everybody knows one out of three isn’t.
Ten minutes into the ride on what everyone agreed was the best horse in the world, he fell, without warning or explanation. It happened so fast, I was unable to fall off. Instead, he landed on me, breaking my fibula.
As I write this, the horse is all right and out to pasture. Turns out he had bone spurs in his front legs, and I was his last ride.
I’m out to pasture too in a way, since it was my right leg and I cannot drive. I am on my second cast and hope to be getting a walking cast sometime soon.
In the meantime, since I have a little free time on my hands, I’ll see if despair.com needs any writers.
And let’s all vow to listen to our guts. Check the Tom Petty channel on Sirius for confirmation.
Robin Swoboda’s column runs every other week. Contact her at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.