I came down with a bad cold on New Year's Eve, and ever since have been stuck in a "I'm feeling better/wait no I'm not" loop. Is it the same cold? A new cold? Allergies? Some kind of combination cold/mold sinus monster? I have no idea anymore, but I do know that it's making me look and feel like this:
i am comfy but also grumpy leave me alone in couch buttcrack okay?
I continue to force myself to rise up from the couch buttcrack occasionally, so as not to undo some of the small mental health best practices and small victories I've achieved over the last couple weeks: I've added at least 30 minutes a day of circuit training-type exercise to my 30 minutes a day of SAD lamp time, and while I know this is not BRAND NEW INFORMATION or anything, and merely proves I have the memory of a goldfish, but: Wow! Getting regular exercise sure does help! Whodathunkit, golly gee, alert the lamestream media, etc.
I don't know how many times I've learned this exact lesson, and every time -- EVERY TIME -- I swear up and down that that this time -- THIS TIME -- I will stay consistent and stick with it. And then every time -- ERRRRY TIME -- I get bored of my workout routine, hit a plateau, drop down to once or twice a week and then start slacking off completely. Inertia and excuses take over and then I'm back where I started, all weak muscles, lousy endurance and a sad/anxious brain.
Jason's been attending a boot camp-style fitness class at our YMCA a couple times a week and kept telling me how much I'd probably like it, since it mixes things up a lot and isn't too repetitive. But it starts at 5:30 a.m. which never in a hojillion years would be doable for me. If life were a wacky supernatural comedy and Morgan Freeman himself came down dressed as God and promised me a complete election do-over and all I had to do was attend that 5:30 a.m. boot camp just enough times to compile enough footage for a proper montage sequence, I would still fail completely. Sorry, America. Nuclear blast, fade to white, roll end credits.
(I took some cold medicine before writing this, in case you couldn't tell.)
But it turns out Jason missed his calling as a personal trainer, or has at least proven that he's way better at Pinterest than I am (I STILL DON'T GET IT I'M SORRY). Every day he scours the fitness boards and sends me a new workout, tweaked a little to what I can perform at home, and every few days ups the ante because he knows I'm a competitive motherfucker who -- when asked how it went/whether it was too hard -- will always be like, "IT WAS FINE NBD IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?" While the truth is more along the lines of being super grateful I'm here alone so no one but the dog is around to witness me grunting and moaning as I struggle to get HOW MANY DUMBBELL REPS/BURPEES/CRUNCHES??!?? in before just lying on the floor for a little while for some post-workout ceiling contemplation.
It's been seriously helping, though. Enough to boost my confidence/general ass-kickery desires enough to officially commit to attending the Women's March on Washington in a couple weeks. The last time I attempted to attend a political rally it resulted in a really, really bad enochlophobia-fueled panic attack on the D.C. Metro, an experience that has fucked with my brain anytime I'm around large crowds (especially crowds + enclosed spaces like trains, malls, nightclubs, concert venues, ugh ugh ugh) ever since. I'll be going down by (assigned seating!) bus with a small group of friends (who know my particular shade of crazy), avoiding the Metro, staying outside, have clear set plan for getting in and out, etc. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still a low-key freaked about it, but...I need to go. I need to try. It's important to me and I'd regret NOT at least showing up and being one more small body among the thousands of others, an image that is likewise both a little terrifying and inspiring at the same time.
Plus hey, after a couple more weeks of workouts I should be able to defend my personal space with two nice strong arms and two even pointier elbows.