Just Breathe. Metaphorically. I’m Too Congested To Be Literal.
It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m in bed.
Not for any dramatic reason, just because I’ve given in to the cold that’s been lowering for a week. I feel grumpy and unkempt and stuffy, sniffly and worn-down and worn-out, frustrated and ashamed and guilty. But the sitting still is good for a few things.
One, I’m feeling a little better. Rest and liquids and all that. They do actually work.
Two, it’s surprising how your to-do list is not as overwhelming as you think it is when you can’t do some of it. The world tends not to end, somehow.
Three, I’m giving myself a talking to.Â I’m tired of feeling rotten about myself, and I’m tired of making myself feel so rotten about myself.
If I work out, I didn’t push myself enough and it in any case it doesn’t make up for having skipped the last few days. If I eat healthy, I could have done better or eaten less. If I – well, you get the point. Whatever I do isn’t enough. It’s no wonder I can’t keep it all going – and, some days, can’t keep anything going.
I treat myself awfully. I wouldn’t do this to a friend. I wouldn’t do this to my cat. I treat my plants better, and they’re dying.
It is time for a change.