Monday, January 16, 2006

and that's the exercise for january. Yeah. So. Monsoon. New bangs. New regime. Running the track. Mmmkay. As I was ambling along, cursing like a sailor, rain-slick skin shining under the bright lights of the park, a wiry man who looked to be in his fifties blasted by me like a gale-force wind. He said something. I couldn't hear him over my blasting iPod (wrapped in a ziploc, shoved under my dri-fit shirt), so I tapped my chest to pause the music. "Sorry?" "Keep goin', girl! Yes!" And then he drifted ahead in the most effortless way, leaving me beet-red, soaked to the bone, and grinning like an idiot. Sometimes I just feel like my life is charmed... Except for the fact that I was out in the frickin' rain, beet-red, and soaked to the bone. Running. Ah, Vancouver. The most scary thing is that I could run in the pouring rain on a clay track with nary a mishap -- and then trip twice while making my bed in the comfort of my own home. Ah, Meg. 6:53:04 PM    well, yes, but...  [] today is the first day of the next week of the first month of the current year of the rest of your life. i think. That's it. That's enough. Blah, blah, blah insomnia. Blah, blah, blah tired. Blah, blah, blah wacky body image. Blah, blah, blah angst. I'm done with the navel gazing as to the whys and hows and wherefores of my various chaos elements. I'm ready to just do stuff -- simple stuff, nothing weird or major or illegal in three states -- to combat this state of being. Like not letting my work schedule designate the amount of exercise I get in a day, instead of sitting for an hour when I get home thinking about how busy I am. Like finally organizing the mess of papers lingering in my 'mess of papers drawer' to create some semblance of order, instead of spending hours rifling through it, one fifteen minute chunk at a time. Like actually eating breakfast, instead of sitting at work trying to remember the title of the Barry White song I am being reminded of by the growling in my stomach. Like taking one of the vitamins in the pretty blue bottles that line my medicine cabinet, instead of just marvelling at their pretty blueness while reaching for the toothpaste. Like not wearing flip flops to work again until the spring, instead of wondering why my feet are a freakish mess. Like washing the makeup off my face at night instead of lying in bed going, "I should wash off my makeup." Like picking up one of the books at my bedside, instead of glancing at them and wistfully thinking I should read more. I know. Just little things that normal people do, but I tend not to do because the smaller elements of my personal routine could only be described as whimsical. These things are not hard. At the most, they'll take an hour, and not even every day. I'm not embarking on some major project or crafting some intricate plan for comprehensive change. I just freakin' well need to do a few things and stop planning to do those things. Or even just lamenting them. I'm worth the effort. I'm worth the fitness. I'm worth the health. I am worth the sense of peace. I am worth all the time saved. I'm worth the creative stimulation. I may be a complete and utter spaz, but that doesn't mean I can't whip my world into a shape resembling something other than a protozoa. I'm kicking my own ass. Because this is most definitely not good enough. 7:09:59 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:31:48 PM.