I haven't ran in nine days. Nine. My body is hating life right now. My body is hating me right now. I'm neglecting it. My back hurts (I never learned to lift with my knees, not my back). I have cuts and scrapes on my hands and arms from a) angry cats, and b) cramming an apartment-full of junk into one two-door vehicle. By myself. I've skipped meals. Two days in a row. I haven't had tea in days. I don't even know the last time I took a vitamin. Or drank milk.
People, this is me in utter despair.
This entire moving process has not only stressed me out to the maximum, but it's taken away most of my life. For nine days. I've been gone on the weekends, loading and unloading my life during the week. I want to run. I want to go back to rope burn. (Did I say that? Crap). I want to eat three meals a day. I want to run some more. Regularly. Every day. I need exercise now. I can feel the muscles dissolving and fat cells multiplying. If you listen close enough, you can probably hear it.
I want all this busy-ness to: Stop. Taking. Away. My. Life.
Dammit. (Yes, this moment required foul language).
Starting next week (Tuesday, please. I have to go out of town this weekend. Sigh.), I am forcing my life back to normal. All the stress and work and people and "things to do" can just work around my schedule.
So there. I put my foot down. Now leave me be.