I am far too chipper for the late hour. I’ve gotten the wanderlust again and I don’t know if it’s because we’ve had weeks now of miserable weather with only a few broken hours of weak sunlight or if it’s just become a natural part of my rhythms, but I’m planning trips for the coming year like it’s going out of style. Minneapolis for my cousin’s wedding in June, now it looks like DragonCon in September and possibly going to New Orleans in October. This extra week of vacation plus the icy temperature and fields and fields of blow that seem to have transformed the parking lot outside of our condo has me dreaming of airplanes and airport security lines and the wonderful process of going. Hopefully, all the plans will come together and the money can be set aside and it won’t all be the gleeful fannish dream it feels like right now. Someday, somehow, we’ll add up all these little half-escapes and find a door right out of all our troubles.
I’ve gone just enough today to be quite pleased with myself. I have not yet succumbed to all cravings and excuses and little sidesteps that are settled just above my head. All the ideas that I let destroy my diets in the past, they’re just outside my peripheral vision but I know exactly what they are, how they feel with then they swing towards me with this angelically demonic tone just syruped over everything they whisper. They hope to get my attention and they hope to put the breaks on what is starting to become a fairly visible difference. A physical difference that I can physically detect. These ideas, these failed motivations, these fears all are hoping that one of these days I will trip up and fall out of my groove and my life will become predictable again.
I am becoming one of those people who could just up and do anything. This is very scary.
Scarier yet is how this is coming about. I find today that I like doing push-ups. Even if they’re modified pushups from your knees. I remember being told to do those in high school gym and no one ever properly explained how to do them and I sort of half did them just enough to get by. They felt impossible and awkward. Now I’ve got enough strength going in my arms and I understand how my arms need to go to support the weight and it feels good to feel that I can do them. Not a thousand. Not single-armedly (hear that, Miss Grammar Nazi 1994, I know it’s not a word. It is poetic license, though). I can do a push-up or two, though.
I ate in the limits, rode on the bike with the seat so hard it’s akin to medieval torture until the calories were up, did the strength exercises and I don’t feel remotely brutalized by the effort. Not a drop mistreated. So, terrors, fears, cravings, and whatever else is battering around inside the Pandora’s Box of my brain, you’re going to have to make me far more miserable than this to make me consider going back to what was. This is my glove on the ground. This is a challenge.