Miss Theresa’s feeling a little under the weather today.
So y’all are stuck with just me. And, let’s be honest, I’ve not got a lot to report.
See, last week was my Birthday Week, as I mentioned…uh…last week. I’m one of those that believes strongly in the power of birthdays to be, well, birthdayish, and that if you can’t slack on your birthday, when can you slack off?
The problem, of course, is that slackery is contagious.
Not just to other people, but to yourself. One minute, you’re motoring along, working up what looks to be a gallon of sweat in the garden every day, and the next, your garden looks like a weed bomb exploded, and you’ve ingested more cake than should be legally allowed, and a week’s gone by and you realize that your rear’s been bonded to the chair like some kind of molecular fusion experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. You really meant to do something more active. Really, you did. But that chair and that stack of books (and maybe that last leftover piece of cake) just called you much more loudly than the garden (and its sweatings) could possibly muster.
On the plus side, my garden’s starting to produce now, despite my lack of attention to its weeds and its watering needs. I’m starting to get some tomatoes, the summer squash is up and going insane, and there are, surprisingly, a ton of green onions that are going nutbars insane. Even the weirdly-stunted beans are putting off pods, and the jalapenos — let’s just say that it’s going to be a warm season of cooking this year. (It’s the hundred-degree temperatures here, which are excellent for tobasco peppers…not so much for the gardener who is prone to heat stroke.)
Also, my in-person fitness partner has started going back to the gym, and her reports of treadmill miles and elliptical-of-death sessions are starting to dig at the part of me that has a deep competitive streak. (When I say deep, I mean, like, DEPTH OF THE OCEANIC TRENCH deep. It’s a character flaw.)
This week is about catching up for me.
The feeling of being behind — in the garden, in the gym, at work, at home — is one I can not stand. I get overwhelmed and throw all the to-do lists in the trash and have a cookie instead.
So I’m clean slating it. Start from where I am, right now, and by Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m hoping to feel a little less cake-heavy and a lot more willing to call up said in-person fitness buddy and say Okay. I give. Take me to the Chamber of Horrors.
I know y’all are watching: I don’t want to have to report my own sloth again next Friday, when Theresa will be back and, despite being sick, will probably run circles around me in the Activity Arena. So I’m stating it here:
By next Friday, I will have been to the gym at least twice.
I’m also going to start tracking my (very unimpressive) mileage. Prepare to be underwhelmed. I’m kind of a sludgelike old fart, and my mileage is more like “oh, look, she walked far enough to get to the fridge and back today”.
Hold me to it, guys. I’m going to need all the cheerleading I can get.