I want to lose weight. I really really do. But then there are weeks like these, and... and... ugh goddamnit I can't bear to think, let alone run around a track or bob up and down on some machine.
Let's cut it down to the brass tax, gentlemen: I fell asleep at 1:45 last night, to awaken in a cold sweat at 5:00 am suddenly aware that my half-hour nap had lasted much longer than it was supposed to, and indeed one of my five page papers that was due today hadn't even been started.
My body has the ability to subtly remind me of things I've forgotten in just such a manner. I call it the "oh shit" syndrome.
And goddamn it, it never fails that I think... well, I might as well get up and do it, and I'll be done in enough time to take a half-hour nap before I have to leave. And I'll be damned if every single day I fall victim to this disease, the printer spits out my paper or the last flashcard falls just as it's time for me to dress and haul my ass out the doorway. Tired and hungry and cranky and not quite in the mood to spend seven hours either sitting in a class or chasing around the twins.
Now, if you could burn calories on stress and mental work alone, I'd be gorgeous. But you can't, and I'm not, and it's becoming increasingly obvious that the very rare free time I do have is difficult to ration.
I've been seriously considering taking a month off work to work on this issue once the babies leave. We'll see how my roommate and financial partner feels about THAT idea, particularly considering that he hasn't been too fond of me as a whole lately. Although I can see how he'd appreciate either end... As Jody has been so delicately reminding me lately, nobody loves a fat chick.
Enough. Enough. Get me the hell out of here.