On Saturday I woke up on my day off to run twelve miles. The morning greeted me with gorgeous weather and a good amount of stomach distress. I didn't get out of the house until three hours after my plan. This meant I had to cut the run to nine miles, which was a good thing because my body was having a difficult time adjusting to my brain. And my brain had this song on repeat: This is without a doubt, the stupidest fucking commitment I have ever made. And on top of having made the commitment, I have made it in public. Sigh. Now it's Monday and I'm up early to run before getting to work at eight. It seems that by taking an evening on the couch last night instead of going to a dinner that promised to be maybe the most fun dinner of all time, I feel less crazy. I worked almost 50 hours this week, made some book progress, got my papers ready for taxes, had a restorative sports massage from my magical friend Valerie, and still ran about thirty miles. As a result, perhaps my mind isn't all that it could be. This is what I like to refer to as poor time management.
My list of things to do is still down to my wrist, which means there's a glitch in my matrix somewhere. For years I have done this, overscheduled myself to the point of disfunction, and here, on the brink of my fortieth cliff, I have managed to change the nature of what the time is crammed with, but the lesson to learn still seems firmly in place. And I, it appears, remain an unwilling, or unteachable student.
Anyhoots... off I go. I will ruminate on what a girl can do about this kind of thing without feeling deprived of all the world has to offer. If you happen to be an art patron reading this, I imagine not going to work would really kick the arts up a notch.