Wow! I keep letting this thing slide. In my defense, I had my parents here for Thanksgiving.
It's official. Our plane tickets to Ireland are booked. Stone fences and pubs, here we come...in about four months.
Speak of four months, that means I have that much time before we go to recommitt myself to the folloowing: the way I eat; my physical therapy routine; my writing.
The way I eat is always a problem over the holidays... heck, it's a problem every waking moment of life, and sometimes even when I'm alseep. Since I started doing this whole eating right thing, I have mostly stayed on the wagon. I have fallen off a few times, and it is always spectacular.
I've now been watching the pattern long enough that I can recognize something that is really painful about myself. I have a food addicition. Is that possible? More specifically, I have a sugar addicition. I crave it constantly, I can smell it a mile away, I have to change my life habits to avoid it, because if I visit those old haunts again, I will eat it. It never stops at one cookie or one piece of bread. And then I wake up with a sugar hangover, wondering why I did that to myself, but I go do it again anyways.
Seriously? I am recommitting myself. If that means I have to throw out everything in the house, hide all money from myself so I can't buy lunch, and have a constant buddy with me every waking moment so I don't slip, so be it. Sugar kills, people. It's bad for you.
The physical therapy. A looooong time ago, in a galaxy far far away... sort of. It seems like it. Anyways, I was a synchronized swimmer (go check somewhere else on this blog to see how competitive I was) and I did some impressive damages to my shoulders. I've been able to get by for many years with mimimal physical therapy, but no more. Both my shoulders have started giving me huge problems, so I bought a new set of weights, broke out my old medicine balls and rubber bands, and here we go.
If I don't do this, I will be screaming in agony at the end of all that travel time to Ireland.
The writing. Remember this? I am an English major who loves to write? (ironic, then, that I just noticied that my spell check is off and I have no desire to go back and fix all the inevitable typos in this). I have classic books galore? I have several half started and half finished short stories and novels that just need more time and love? I own every conceiveable form of BBC movie/TV miniseries? (fellow junkies, did you see that Jane Eyre is going to be a movie?) Yes, that's me.
That, there, is truly what I love. I love my job, and I think I am getting better at it. It does not fulfill me the way that writing does. In my ultimate perfect world, I could devote myself to that as a fulltime job. In a more realistic perfect world, I could work a real job part time and do that part time.
In the real world, I just need move my ass and do it in overtime.
So, four months. Here we go!
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