In case you thought maybe I’d gotten my shit together in recent weeks.
You probably didn’t…
‘Cause y’all know me…
But just in case you thought I did.
I mean, it comes and goes.
Right now it’s gone.
“You’re either balls to the wall running 20 miles or you’re bedded down with a stockpile of food. There’s no in between with you.”
He’s not wrong.
I seem to have lost my ability for moderation.
If I ever had it to begin with…
I probably didn’t…
I started the week off with a 15 mile run out at Day Creek with K-Rob and Track Star.
After a 20 mile run with the Christmas Crew a few days before.
And felt pretty good about my clothes nearly fitting.
But then I started cancelling runs.
In my defense, I bailed on two of those runs this week because this face…
It would be morally reprehensible to say no to that face.
If he wants to walk first thing in the morning before the earth catches fire. Then I’m gonna skip my run to accommodate that.
If he gets a sudden rare bout of energy and wants to play when I get home from work. Then, dammit, forget Chaos. I gotta stay home and play with my dog.
As Rogue pulled her farm car out of my driveway last night, she told me to go to McAfee at 4am this morning. Because the Saharan Sandstorm is creating glorious sunrises. And I should see it.
She figured I could make the trip and be back in time for graduation. My E. The last of my kids. Is graduating today. In the most pandemic way possible. With a drive in graduation ceremony.
And I trusted Rogue’s math.
But I guess the bedding down part of my body decided on an automatic refusal. Without letting me know. Because I was pretty sure I’d set my alarm for 2:30am.
But I just woke up a few minutes ago. So…
And I mean it’s not like I won’t run this weekend. I will. I might even get a long run in. On my own. Without anyone else having to make me.
But the problem is, my absolute lack of movement this week has not slowed my eating. I have been “bedded down with stockpiles of food” every damn night.
And the problem with that is I’m actually going into actual work this week. Into an actual work building. With other actual people. So I have to put on actual clothes.
And while it takes weeks of intentional, balls to the wall 20 mile runs to remove poundage from a 45 year old perimenopausal body. It takes only hours of bedding down with stockpiles of food to put it back on.
Which seems like a wildly unfair mathematical system.
So, when I tried to put on a pair of pants yesterday. The button was so resistant to the task of holding my hips and stomach inside of the material. That it flung itself across my bedroom and down the stairs. To its death.
It may not be dead.
It may just be hiding.
A little dramatic, but ok.
So, I tried some shorts. Several pairs. None of which could be forced up over my thighs.
Y’all just being extra this morning.
Sundresses. Rogue says I need to invest in sundresses.
Which is not ideal for me. Given my propensity to sit any kind of way. And just throw my legs around in whatever position they like. Which is not always together. Like a lady.
But hell. We’re not really living in that level of civilized society at this point anyway, are we?
Manspredding in sundresses it is.
Yesterday I did manage to force myself into a pair of jeans.
And then spent my day with a container of cookies. That Ghost insisted I bake for him. But then refused to come get first thing in the morning. And so I just kept eating through them.
They weren’t good. They were actually quite awful.
They had caramel in them.
I hate caramel.
Particularly baked caramel.
But they were in front of me.
So I ate them…
Halfway through the day, one of my bosses shoved some pizza in front of me. While I was on the phone. So I couldn’t protest…
You don’t know. I might’ve protested.
So, I mean, I had to eat it.
It would’ve been rude not to.
And I packed a solid collection of lunch and snacks.
That I didn’t want to waste.
I’m very earth-friendly.
So I just sat there. At my desk. All day. Bedded down with food.
Like, my stomach actually hurt. From excessive food intake.
I. COULDN’T. STOP.
By the time I got home. The waistband of my jeans had nearly permanently embedded itself into my skin.
I think the imprint is probably gonna linger on my waist for the next few days.
I don’t have a real point to this story. (I do usually have a point. Sometimes.) Except to share my experience. With the anticipation that I am not alone in this experience.
And to assure y’all that I’m still me. I still need constant supervision. And discipline.