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. 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.
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