Seriously, told myself as I left the office last Friday at 8pm that I would need to arrive to work on Monday well rested and ready for a big day.
Last night, I had to forgo dinner due to an inexplicable bellyache that arrived precisely at the wrong time – and then invited his friend, nausea, to join the party.
Later, I tossed and turned until around 02:30, unable – no matter how much I tried – to grab hold of sleep.
So. Feeling awesome this morning. Not.
Stack it on, Monday. Make it heaps.
Need to get back on the treadmill good and proper soon. Not soon, actually, more like yesterday. I fear I may now be the same weight I was when I was 15, which was not good – I was a tub[by].
Speaking of 15, there’s lots that’s going on in my life now that harks back to when I was that age. Honestly, it’s like all the chooks have decided to come home to roost this year. I honestly thought I could get through life without dealing with all that crap from when I was that age, but life has a way of getting its way. I was not close to my dad, who died in March, but who he was obviously had a significant effect on me. (And I don’t mean that in a good way.)
What’s that Philip Larkin poem about parents… Oh, that’s right, this:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.
That’s life, innit!
I’ve been forced to examine my sleep habits this week. And I realised that I’ve been doing the very thing I’ve eschewed for as long as I can remember: sleeping in on weekends. I don’t know when exactly or how it happened, but I’ve been allowing myself to stay in bed beyond the regular weekday rising time quite regularly in the last six months or so. This experiment has not yielded good results. But no matter, I’m fixing it. Now.
I read somewhere, a long time ago, that although we think we need the sleep-in, the extra time spent in bed on the weekend actually makes it harder for the body when the work week comes around, as it invariably does.
“Why so early?” is the common refrain, when people hear that you are up before 6:30am on a Saturday or Sunday. I’ve proffered the “sleep-ins are superfluous to the body’s needs” argument before but the non-believers refuse to be converted so I tend to revert to the usual safe, uncontroversial line, “I’m a morning person.” (And smile.)
And it’s true. I love the silence. I love the light as it goes from soft to saturated. I love the sense of optimism that seems to accompany the early morning, the feeling that anything could happen today… and it could be amazing.
Besides a new left ankle, what are my options? It hurts when I exercise. It hurts when I walk. It’s stiff, and yet not stable (I roll it on a weekly basis). It has not been the same since last November’s accident. Dread to think what it will be like when I’m an old lady. I spend too much time pondering about this ankle; the other body parts are getting jealous.