State of being: poor.
I have been really good about exercising lately. You can mock, but I learned from my Apple Watch that although I stand all day at work and take the dog for two walks a day, I wasn’t getting much true, heart pounding exercise. So I’ve been better about it, running and dancing and strength.
This morning, though, I woke up reluctantly. Grey sky, humid, no hope of rain (what I wouldn’t give for a two day rainstorm, washing in, washing out). I took the dog for a mosquito laden walk: I wear two layers and a hood and still get eaten alive. I dread to hear about the first case of EEE this year.
Normally in the mornings I lecture myself about not thinking right away: shut it down. Wait till I have caffeine. Don’t make judgements about the day until I’m all the way awake. I wake bleak, is what I’m saying. And usually I shake that off to an extent (it hasn’t even been 4 months since my dad passed, I’m not expecting to be tip-top) but today I haven’t shaken it off. So I didn’t exercise because I think it’s fine to skip a day here and there, and I really REALLY didn’t feel like it, but I’m wondering now if that is a big chunk of my bleakness. I can undo it: I can exercise tonight, slot it in between other plans. But I don’t want to.
I want to go home, leave work behind, crawl into bed with a pile of books, and just not come out for hours, days, a week.
I wrote an email to Ch00 earlier. “I don’t even feel like playing games,” I said. It’s true: they feel like a chore. The only things I can do, that don’t feel like chores, are reading and listening to John Finnemore’s Souvenir Program. Mostly I’m asleep at 9:30, I wake up at 5:30. It’s still vaguely light at 9, summer nights. I’m wasting them. I’m wasting a lot of time. I’ve spent hours crouched in front of cabinets, washing and rewashing to get rid of layers of grease. It shows in that the cabinets look clean, but I feel defensive because that doesn’t reflect the TIME, the frustration. It doesn’t show how I washed every pot and pan before putting them all back. It doesn’t reflect the frustration of cleaning one thing and then another and not making significant, clear progress. My aunt stopped by recently and we spent the day in the outer Cape, and she sympathized. “After hours of cleaning when it’s not perfect, you just get angry,” she said. And I do. But more, I get defensive, because I’m not really GOOD at angry. I’m great at angry at myself, but not so much at anything else.
In this humid, dry week, I just feel like a storm is gathering. Something’s going to give, somewhere.