This account begins because of a decision I made 12 years ago.

I had recently left a relationship of nearly a decade and a half because of (his) infidelity. I was grieving, hurt and angry. I decided to get my navel pierced, in what I thought at the time was a sort of act of defiance. Maybe I was imagining that I could somehow rewind the tape and go back to being 28 years old—before I got involved with the cad—and, you know, recapture my lost self or something. It would turn out that I would have my belly pierced not just once, but three times in less than 12 months. I guess I really wanted that lost self. Or maybe I was just being stubborn. But I’m getting sidetracked….

Shortly after the initial piercing, I was hula-hooping on my front lawn (yeah, I guess I really was after that carefree youth feeling, huh?) and I must have over-gyrated or something because later in the day I looked down and not only was the belly ring gone, but the hole where it would have entered my navel had closed up. Undeterred by the not-so-pleasant memories of the first procedure, I went back and got a new piercing and a different belly ring at the tattoo/piercing place.

The loss of the second ring involves a story that likewise concerns an attempt at recapturing youthful vigor, but I will omit the details here. I will only say I have no regrets and I still smile when I remember waking up to find the belly ring on the floor in my bedroom. But alas, too many hours had passed and the hole had once again closed: I could not re-insert the jewelry.

After the second incident I decided I was going to get pierced one final time. I was determined that I’d get the damn ring sautered into my stomach if I had to. Luckily, that was not necessary because shortly after the third procedure (all were done by “Nick” the piercer/artist, by the way) my appendix ruptured, and required emergency removal. As you probably know, jewelry cannot be worn into surgery. By this point, I was seasoned enough to realize that the hole would again close up in a very short timeframe. I didn’t think I could stomach (pun intended) another trip to see Nick the Piercer, so I had the hospital staff insert a plastic “placeholder” into the hole. Five days later, when I got out of the hospital, I went to the best custom jewelry designer in Iowa. I commissioned her to make a beautiful imperial topaz and diamond navel ring to replace the costume jewelry ones I had such ill luck with. It cost me a handsome sum, but it was absolutely stunning. Fortunately, I never had to take Nick up on his offer of “the fourth piercing is half price.” And although my acupuncturist wasn’t happy about it—she said piercings mess with chi and energy flow—the beautiful ring stayed put and I never had another issue with it.

Fast forward. I’ve had the belly ring for 12 years: almost as long as I was with the ungentlemanly man who provided the motivation for the piercing. It’s so much a part of me I don’t think about it. Most people wouldn’t know it was there, since I don’t wear those sorts of clothes. The thought of taking it out has passed through my mind now and then, but not often and not seriously. Not until today.

I was at yoga this morning. There was a meditation class afterward that I had planned to stay for. But right in the middle of shavasana—the rest period at the end of yoga—I had the unexplainable and overwhelming compulsion to get the ring removed: Immediately. I walked to my car and looked up the jeweler’s number. Her studio was still there, at the same address. I called and asked if I could come by and have her remove it. She seemed surprised, but she said yes.

I soon realized the reason for her surprise: The removal process was as simple the third time as it had been the previous two times. The ring was the barbell style and the jeweler merely needed to unscrew the top piece. It had been so well made and had become so much a part of me I assumed it would need to be cut in order to remove it. She asked if I was sure about taking it out, and I nodded without hesitation. She removed the ring.

And just like that, it’s gone.

It’s funny how much attachment we put into things, and the symbolism we invent. For me the belly ring started out representing a reclamation of something I felt had been taken from me. Slowly, without me even realizing it, it turned into just a piece of jewelry. Eventually it must have evolved into some sort of an irritant, because by the end of yoga all I could think of was getting it removed. And now as I write this I feel lighter in some unexplainable way. Like maybe something got reconciled or maybe I outgrew a notion or…well, I’m not sure I’ll ever know, so perhaps it’s just simply a topic for a blog. In any case, next week I am going to make an appointment with my acupuncturist. I really like the idea of my energy flowing…unobstructed.

Last month I went to the doc. Nothing wrong, just the annual physical I get “free” with my health insurance. I had skipped the exam the year prior and I figured I might as well get the benefit of documenting my robust health!

A few days after the physical itself, the lab tech called to tell me the results. Cholesterol, triglycerides, all the usual markers were good, some even great. But then came the kicker: “we’re concerned about your blood sugar,” the tech said. “Your fasting blood glucose came back at 133.”

Silence.

I was stunned. I know that by the usual markers, 70-100 is normal, over 100 is pre-diabetic and anything over 125 is considered diabetic. I am a health coach. I subscribe to a mostly raw vegan diet. My weight is normal. How the hell could my blood sugar be high enough to place me in the diabetic zone?

“We’d like you to come in for an A1c test,” the tech continued. An A1c? I could barely focus. “OK,” I said, let’s get it scheduled.”

Because of holidays and office hours, it would be a couple of weeks before I was able get in to have blood drawn. An A1c is a simple test and the results are available immediately, but anyone who has ever gotten “irregular” lab results back knows that a couple of weeks is a painfully long time to wait. In your head you run all manner of scenarios, from worst-case to imagining the doc telling you “there was a mix-up at the lab and we gave you someone else’s results.”

Finally, the requisite time had passed and I arrived for my 2nd blood draw. It felt like an eternity while I waited for Dr. Kim to come back into the room. When she did, she was expressionless. “Well?” I asked. “You’re at 5.1,” she said.

5.1. “That’s normal,” I said. “Correct,” she replied.

Normal. What a beautiful word.

I’ll never really know what happened with the test done during my routine physical, and at this point I don’t really much care. But living with the uncertainty of those few in-between weeks had a profound effect on me. I already was—by most standards—health-conscious. But after getting the initial test results, I really scrutinized my daily practices. Did I really need to sweeten my tea with honey? Am I honest with myself about how much wine I drink in a week? Are my gym workouts still effective? Good questions to ask, but had I not had the “scare,” I might not have taken such a complete self-inventory. And my inventory did reveal to me a few areas where I decided I could make some improvements. Nothing huge, really, but a few adjustments that I think will payoff if I can be consistent over time.

I couldn’t figure it out. When I got up this morning, why did my feet, lower back and even my neck hurt? I hadn’t changed my workout, had not done any heavy lifting, and I slept in the same position I always did. So, why did I have this dull ache everywhere, even before I got out of bed?

Then I remembered. I wore a suit yesterday. All day. For more than 12 hours.

It’s not that the wearing of a suit itself creates pain. No, it’s the accessories: most notably, the footwear.

For 25 years my career—before I started Fork in the Road—was in the graphic design and advertising business. I was co-owner of a small but successful firm. We had clients scattered about the country, so I traveled a lot and I had become accustomed to dressing a particular way. Fast-forward to 2009 after I had left that profession to become a health and nutrition coach: entirely different work, totally different hours and way different attire, including the shoes.

You see I started my career in the early 1980s. Back then everyone in business “dressed for success,” and for women that meant skirts or pant suits and, invariably, high heels. I remember the early days in my first job: the first thing I would do when I got home at night was to kick off the damn shoes and those almost-as-excruciating control top pantyhose. (Why was I wearing control top anyway? I weighed 105 pounds! But I digress….). This went on for over three more decades. By the time we closed the advertising business, I had become so accustomed to heels that I could run through O’Hare or LaGuardia, even while schlepping heavy luggage. Having sore feet and a backache just became another of those things you endure without question.

But this isn’t a diatribe about women’s footwear or the value of orthopedics. I am writing this because what struck me—after I surmised the source of my recent foot and back soreness—was the whole notion of becoming used to living with pain. Not just pain: preventable and fixable pain.

This in turn led me to consider: since I had lived with self-induced physical discomfort previously, what in my current life—whether related to mind, body or spirit—might I be enduring unnecessarily? What am I blindly accepting as “that’s just the way it is” right now? Are there some emotional stilettos that I could easily trade for a cute pair of flats? Are there some bad habits I have that are giving me the equivalent of a spiritual bunion? Am I in any way shooting myself in the proverbial foot?

This topic may end up being something I spend more time exploring for myself in the New Year. Meanwhile, I invite you to take a walk in my shoes, so to speak. Look inward and ask yourself what’s keeping you from walking with a spring in your step?