Never Want It Again

I started this post yesterday, then a gin and tonic called my name. Next thing I knew it was after midnight and I felt not at all like talking.

It’s cold here. This morning, frost weighed down the leaves of our backyard sage bushes. We’ve retreated to the attic exercise room for sweaty activity, but it’s tricky. We currently have no TV in the attic. I have the attention span of a toddler in sugar shock. As much as I love the mosh pit sensation that is pushing hard and fast on the elliptical, without something to focus on I climb off the machine after ten minutes to go clean something. For two weeks, I managed 8 or 11 or 10 or 12 minutes, then found myself having a lemon-scented polishing incident. Thwarting my own plans was starting to frustrate me, lack of waxy build up aside. Yesterday, without thinking about it, I dragged my laptop to the attic, found a playlist I’d made for a friend years ago and howled along with Little Green Bag from the executive position atop the elliptical. When it was over, I was four minutes into a pretty decent workout and wondering how I’d tricked me into it. Five songs I truly love later, I felt great and only a few of my neighbors had called 911 about the shrieking. I excite even people who cannot actually see my extreme beauty. Everybody wins!

Last Thursday, I got about halfway through the workday when I realized I was trying to lie down at my desk which, while flat, offered limited coziness options, so I went home and slept until dinnertime, when I wasn’t entirely sure how many fingers I was holding up. Friday morning, I decided to stay in bed and monitor the broadcast culture from a supine position, so perhaps I was able to trick myself into kicking my own ass on Saturday because I was either well-rested or still asleep.

It’s three. I’m holding up three fingers and back to work I go.

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