This is the wall.

This is me hitting the wall.


I woke up this morning with the thought that I was getting an x-ray taken of my back teeth. It was the only feasible way to explain the distinct sensation of having a lead apron weighing on my chest and arms. Exhaustion sucks. I was so dog tired that I didn’t even want to stay curled up in bed, as that didn’t promise anything akin to relief. This is what tech week does to me. It beats me down so sufficiently that even SLEEP doesn’t seem appealing. The hot shower, on the other hand, was. Thank the morning gods that today wasn’t one of those days where my apartment building decides to ration out its morning supply of hot water like it was an endangered natural resource.

For the last 24 hours I’ve also found myself feeling rather fat. Surely my membership in the Dude Club is in jeopardy for even making such a statement, but there it is. The same pants I was wearing in relative comfort the other day are now gripping at my waist like a baby with a pacifier, sucking the life out of me in the way I *don’t* dream of. In addition, my act one costume shirt was feeling particularly snug last night. I find it hard to believe that in the span of a couple of hours and one relatively innocuous meal I can suddenly feel like I’ve strapped a life preserver around my midsection, particularly given the fact that I was damn hungry when I got up this morning. This whole weight-gain thing is perplexing. I mean, how come I can’t pack on a few pounds where I can afford it, like my ankles, or calves. Why does every carbohydrate I suck down have to take up residence in my gut? It’s almost enough to make me want to take up jogging again. Almost.

Actually, I probably will start running soon, sub-zero temperatures be damned. Once upon a time it would have been a pure vanity thing, but these days it’s more about just wanting to be comfortable. For a couple of years I was jogging every night after work and feeling damn great as a result. Not only physically, but mentally. I was in as good a place as I have ever been. I’d like to get back to that. There was something about the improved cardio condition that carried over into everything in life. My outlook was better, my moods, you name it. Then I let something depress me, I stopped running, and now I’m back to where I was five years ago: lethargic and often miserable, watching my waistband expand with every Dorito-tinged breath. Kinda makes me wonder what the hell is in my DNA that causes me to completely ignore not only the cries of my body, but the cries of my soul that tell me, “you know the answer, dumbass, so get out there and do it!”. They say depression is a clinical condition, but what about apathy? I hate taking pills as a rule, but if they had one that could serve as a systematic boot in the ass, I might consider becoming an addict. What was it that Minnie Driver’s character called it in Grosse Pointe Blank? “Shakabuku” or something? “A swift, spiritual kick to the head that alters your reality forever”. See, now if I could have one of those, although in a smaller dose, every morning, man, that’d be sweet.


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