I’m quite amused by a comment I made on this blog back in January, announcing my lack of New Years’ resolutions, and instead having a “vague, general intention to not be quite so rubbish”. It’s now June, and I haven’t improved in the slightest. Perhaps vague intentions are not sufficient for providing an impetus for change. Who knew?
Instead, there has been a notable lack of progress in most areas of my life. I’m still fatter, poorer and more tired than I would like. I have not improved my personal administration in any way, shape or form, choosing instead to lose my wallet, necessitating a number of form-filling episodes. This has culminated in my having to inform the DVLA that not only are my name, address and photo on my driver’s license woefully out of date, but that I have sadly lost said license. They now want me to parcel up every piece of paper that identifies me and send it to them, forthwith. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of sending my birth and marriage certificates, passport and recent photograph off to a government-run agency. Call me pessimistic, and you can, but I have a bad feeling about the health and well-being of that envelope.
Except actually, I wouldn’t. Nor would I run 26.2. I started training for this year’s Edinburgh Marathon, back in December or so. It was a non-starter from the beginning. Running in the cold, dark and wet is not my idea of fun. An unpredictable work schedule and 10 weeks of snow did not help with my lack of enthusiasm. When the weather improved, I started doing a little more. And spent a few hours before each run grumbling about how I didn’t want to go, continued grumbling whilst I was running, and spent another few hours thinking that perhaps it wasn’t so bad. I can be quite a contrary person at times – with no race to train for, I rarely put on my running shoes, but when training for a race I get deeply cross with my scheduled runs, wanting to run long instead of speed work, or only do 5 miles instead of 8 because it’s all I have time for. About 6 weeks ago, I decided I’d had enough. I was spending hours each week, plodding around, feeling fed up and wondering why I was bothering. Not a state of mind conducive to running my third marathon and trying to get a PB. So I quit.
I know. QUIT. Not “got injured and was forced to withdraw”, but QUIT. Because I couldn’t be arsed. And I feel great about it. I’m not forcing myself into doing something because I think I should. I don’t even feel bad that I don’t want to. I’d like to fall in love with running again, and forcing myself to run 26.2, in pursuit of a personal best time that I don’t deep down care about, isn’t going to help with that.
Instead Le Homme and I are taking to the streets on our bikes tomorrow. We’re going to cycle the 46 odd miles from here to Edinburgh, stay at my sister’s, go to dinner with his brother, watch a bit of the marathon kick off on Sunday, and cycle home. Cos that’s how we roll.
Oooofft, I’m busy busy busy these days. I find it slightly bizarre just how much sheer energy work takes from me. I keep trying to increase my exercise to increase my energy but it doesn’t seem to be working. Which is frustrating as I am tired of feeling tired. Compared to this time last year, however, I’m feeling far more mentally energetic.
Blogs posts and thoughts for the future to include:
- Why I’m not running the Edinburgh Marathon
- How I got a bit fat and what I plan to do about it
- What I’m doing at work and my new career change plans
- Why I want a car
- Possibly some resolutions. Too late to be referred to as New Years’
- Why I have an intense hatred of Sheryl Crow
- Other stuff. Probably.
Now I’m off to roll my poor tired wee legs on my funky foam roller, and have a peaceful evening with my book.
There shall be no clever insights or witty comments from me today. We’ve reached that time of year when the morning sun starts sneaking through the gaps in the blackout curtains at an obscenely early hour. Le Homme is resisting eleven years of training in the art of rolling over, burying one’s head in the pillow and Going Back To Sleep, instead preferring to get up, bang around the house and go off to work. He left the house at 5:30 this morning, the mentalist. I am violently grateful that today is my day off, and I could lie in a restless doze until I fell completely asleep roughly five minutes before the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of the Tesco delivery man.
Now, three cups of coffee later, my head feels cotton wool stuffed and my eyes are sore and tired. I have loads of stuff I wanted to get done today, but none of it has the urgency that sitting on the couch gazing blankly at the telly seems to hold.
So nothing deep and meaningful from me today. I wrote an amazingly fun poem as I was waiting for the Tesco man, but put nothing on paper and have predictably forgotten all the best lines. Perhaps they’ll come to me at 5:30 tomorrow morning.
- Went to work for a few hours even though it was my scheduled day off, (surprise! Chocolate shop in gets-busy-at-Easter shocker!) to make some truffles and bake a banana loaf.
- Waited as the bus went on an extremely long route going past my house twice, in order to get to Morrison’s to pick up some vital basics (deodorant, tin foil).
- Stood in shock and awe at the shiny shiny new chiller cabinets in Morrisons, and the thrilling contents therein. Peppers stuffed with cream cheese! A variety of flavoured couscous! Satay chicken on a stick!*
- Bought a variety of chilled goods.
- Remembered small tins of tonic for gin.
- Forgot the deodorant and tin foil.
- Came home, sat in the garden for three hours reading Joanne Harris’ new novel blueeyedboy.**
- Dozed off listening to BBC 6Music, and the increasingly aggressive pigeon.
- Returned to the house to cook tomorrow’s dinner (lamb rogan josh), and tonight’s (pork steaks, new potatoes and homemade coleslaw).
- Sipped a G&T whilst listening to the News Quiz on Radio 4 and writing this here blog.
A satisfactory day, in its own unexciting way. Hope you’re all enjoying a Great Good Friday.
*I did not buy chicken on a stick. That is not a happy chicken.
**compulsive but underwhelming.
See what I did there? Promised a post every day and then disappeared for six weeks. I’m nothing if not inconsistent. Excuses this time center around my stupid shoulder. The one that I knackered back in December whilst clearing snow drifts from the driveway. It never really got better, and at the time I last posted, was causing me to dose up on painkillers before I went to bed, so the pain wouldn’t wake me. I finally got myself organised and took myself off to a physio who did some funky crunchy things to my neck, gave me a back rest, prescribed a series of stretching moves and forbade me from doing the following: sitting too long at the computer, sitting on the couch to watch tv, reading in bed and having a bath. As I spend around 90% of my leisure time engaged in one or other of these activities, it’s been a boring few weeks. He was right though, and I can swivel my neck around like a little owl. I can also now sit at my laptop without searing pains shooting down my arm, which is the reason you come to be treated to this delightful little blog today.
I can’t quite believe it’s April already, I feel a little discombobulated, as though the world just kept turning for a while there and I wasn’t paying any attention. I think that’s a feature of the long dark winter, a little bit of my brain dips into hibernation mode and I feel a little like I’m waking up, and going “Huh? Wha..?”. I’m thrilled to bits about Spring in all it’s springyness though, even if it is currently drizzling outside.
Once again, I sit here feeling like I really should blog. But not quite sure why.
I spend my days composing endlessly witty posts about the World At Large and my own small part in it. Terribly amusing though they are, these posts never see the light of laptop screen as by the time I get home all the pretty words have fallen from my brain. I’m not sure if I want to blog as much as I want to be a blogger and be part of a whole internet “gang”. But then, I think of the honest-to-goodness joy I get from reading my old paper diaries, and previous now defunct blogs.
So I shall carry on, I think. It feels odd though, a bit stage-frightery, a bit pointless. Like when you begin an anecdote at a party and then are interrupted by some uncommonly rude individual and you just sort of peter out awkwardly, never reaching the punchline.
A challenge then. To write some words here, every day, for the rest of February. What words, I don’t yet know. Suffice to say there is unlikely to be any kind of theme, plan, or general purpose. Which might not be a bad thing.