I'm not prone to push for Friday (I think of it as "wishing one's life away" to bemoan what day of the week it is, or what season of the year it is), but this evening I gotta admit, everything in me is asking in a complaining tone when Friday might be arriving.
It's been a weary week.
A completely wonderful weekend ended with a Sunday night bedtime well past midnight. I could do that when I was younger. I could do that when my waking time wasn't 4:15 AM. I can't do that at this point in my life.
So Monday morning I skipped the run, favoring a little more pillow time. And Monday night I skipped my usual until-bedtime engagements, opting to stay at home and rest.
That helped a little, but I was still relieved, last night, that I had nowhere to be. Butt still dragging.
But both nights, I had a promise to keep - a promise to write every day this year. And both nights that task kept me up late enough that I was falling into a dead sleep, sitting straight up on my couch, between typing in phrases. It's not that I WANT to write at bedtime...I just haven't yet worked out a rhythm for a better time of day. I'll get it.
Last night's late night writing, combined with an overactive mind and bladder (surely brought on by the unusually large number of cups of tea I swilled yesterday, late into the afternoon and well past my 2 pm no-more-caffeine deadline) that meant very little nighttime sleep, derailed me again this morning from running. Lots of extra pillow time, with my body groaning in pain and my stomach that unlovely pain that is over-tiredness.
I've been watching the signs all day. Extra generous sinus drainage choking me anytime I'm not drinking something warm or sucking on candy. Body aches. Fuzzy thinking. Throat getting sorer with the passing hours. The fact that I managed to get my feelings hurt before breakfast. After all, though I used to fall for that baloney that getting my feelings hurt is "something that is done to me," all these years of living alone, without a nearby scapegoat for my emotional modes, has taught me that getting my feelings hurt is a choice I make - and I am altogether capable of not choosing it. If I'm defaulting to hurt feelings and looking for a way to change someone else or hold someone else accountable for my emotion, instead of working out with God what my major malfunction is, something is for sure off kilter in me.
It's that business of which came first, the chicken or the egg. Have I pushed myself too hard, too many days in a row, causing this general feeling that keeps whispering to me you seem to be getting sick? Or was the fact that I was getting sick the reason that I've had such a hard time recovering?
In the end, it doesn't matter which came first. My job now is to love my body. Which means the first thing I do is put down this impatience, this part of me that is yelling at the top of her lungs that there have been TOO MANY ROUNDS OF THIS, this year. The one who feels entitled to a "get out of sickbed free" card, just based on too much annual experience. The part that wants to kick against the feeling bad, ignore it, keep driving.
Being mad or frustrated won't fix it. Feeling sorry for myself won't fix it. White-knuckling through won't fix it. Figuring out whether the tired brought the sick, or the sick brought the tired, won't fix it.
Loving my body is my only hope. Rest. Liquids. Prayer.
Choosing anything else at this point would be directly choosing NOT to love this amazing, wondrous, self-healing vessel He's given me to dwell in.
And that's neither obedience nor gratitude, right?
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