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.
--Kristen
McHenry
1 comment:
Your posts are so much fun to read! :--)
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