At the end of this week, I woke up with a mild cold and massive mental and physical exhaustion. I called in sick to work, even though I had a deadline that day. It wasn’t a very consequential deadline, but I take those things seriously and it’s hard for me to miss one, even one that doesn’t matter much. I was just done. Tired. Every muscle in my body hurt, I had come home from work the night before literally shaking from emotional distress over some things that are going on in my community that are divisive and therefore very upsetting to me, I was worn out from not getting enough protein because I’m still deeply confused about how much protein to eat, and I simply I did not have it in me to meet to the day with verve. I announced to Mr. Typist that I was on strike. I would not do a damn thing that day. I would not go to work, the gym, or even the mailbox. I was done with life and refused to lift a finger. I did brush my teeth—I’m not a savage—but I stayed in my night clothes all day, ate three normal meals including fat after six months self-imposed calorie restriction, and actually full-fledged fell asleep smack in the middle of the day, which is not a feat I am normally capable of. You would think that I would have woken up the next morning feeling marvelously refreshed, but apparently one strike day is not enough. I was still fighting a cold and taxed out the next day. However, I know how easily one strike day can turn into two, then a week, then finally a lifetime of lying on the couch in exile from the world, cashing a government check and subsisting on cigarettes and take-out delivery.
So I rallied. I got out of bed and took a shower and put clothes on and went to the gym and even dusted and vacuumed. There is this thing that is talked about in muscle-building instruction videos called “going to failure.” This means lifting until you physically, literally can’t anymore. It’s a fairly controversial technique and I don’t know if my trainer would approve since he’s never mentioned it and seems very fond of rest periods, but at any rate, I realized that I what I had done was gone to failure—emotionally, physically and mentally. It’s just all been a little too much and while I’m not fragile by any means, there are times when I just...can’t...bloody...take...it...anymore. This was one of those times.
Who would definitely not approve of my strike day is ex-Navy SEAL Jocko Willink, aka “my boyfriend” according to Mr. Typist. He’s not really my boyfriend, of course…sigh. He’s just really dreamy and smart and strong and heroic and he has a nice deep voice and I love his weekly podcast. He’s coming to Seattle, folks! I was totally stoked to see that information on Facebook, and I set a calendar reminder to snap up some tickets the minute the minute they went on sale. Drum roll, please...this weekend, I got my tickets to see Jocko at the Moore Theater in January! Woot! Anyway, the reason Jocko wouldn’t approve is that he doesn’t really believe in sleep (which rankles even his most ardent followers) and he would say that THERE MUST BE DISCIPLINE and that I must overcome lethargy and fight sloth and prevail through the application of endurance and mental stamina, and stay on the path of the righteous. And mostly, I do, although it’s not iron discipline that drives me. It’s my fear of my very real potential to become that couch-lying takeout-eating smoking person. Fear is just as legitimate a motivator as discipline, in my opinion.
Mr. Typist announced his intent to keep a very close eye on Jocko during this event and flip him that “I’m watching you” pointing-to-the-eyes gesture, which I’m sure will intimidate the heck out of Jocko. So I don’t really have much of a chance for anything to come of my crush, but I've accepted that. Maybe he’ll at least sign my book.