“I’m not 100%”

By 10 am I had heard it 4 times. By 8 pm it was the joke of the night. By dinnertime the following day it was the excuse we all used for any imperfections, mishaps or ailments.

My husband had caught a cold. Admittedly, he was not 100%. What percentage was he throughout this 48-hour bout of the sniffles? Oh maybe 68 or 70 percent. But definitely not 100.

“Oh man I just tripped over thin air!”
“It’s probably because you’re not 100%.”
It was comical.

After the comedy subsided, this interesting coping mechanism he was using made me really ponder the question: Are we ever really at 100%?

But what is more interesting is how this topic could so easily bring me into a feministic rant of men and how whiny they can be when they have the slightest hint of pain and suffering rousing in their systems. However interesting that topic may be… I won’t go there. I like my marriage.

So back to my ponderance. I very rarely feel as though I am mentally or physically at 100%. I get pretty close on a good day, maybe up to an 89 or 90. The last time I was at 100% was probably when I was at my peak physical condition, which in turn helped me to be in a peak mental condition. Can you imagine that this was Before Children (BC)? Weird huh?

I worked out a few days a week, consistently improving my strength and endurance. Paddled regularly on the dragon boat and occasionally on an outrigger canoe. I even managed a few competitions in each discipline during those days.

Now, in an effort to try to conquer a mere 90 or 95% I have to do a crossword puzzle, drink a couple glasses of wine, take a few hours off from my kids (and sometimes my husband), run at least a mile and a half and snort 45 minutes of good ole fresh air. Not in that order.

My 100% in 2012 is equal to a solid 65% in 2007. My fat old cat’s 100% is like a 13% back in 2004. Poor thing, she used my cuticles to anchor her claws and pull herself up on my bed the other morning. And it wasn’t even worth the effort. Connor (2) was there waiting, and she immediately had to flee.

I hear my 40s might be promising on the physical front. I’ll start planning my triathlon training now. It’ll take nearly a decade to pump myself up enough for it because I have no doubt that my physical efforts will just be to counteract my compromised mental state. When I’m 40 I’ll have a couple of snarky tweens just ready for mom to show some weakness.

I better start my training tomorrow. Right after another glass of wine and 9:30 bedtime.