Ever trained so hard that your mascara mingles with the sweat, drips into and stings your eye? I realise that this question may only apply to half my readers (or maybe more: holler back athletic transvestites!) but it needs to be addressed nonetheless. I feel this question and the event that triggered it may have a greater signifcance in my life than you would think on first appearance.
Let’s break it down. Training hard. Mascara. Sweat. Not chocolate box, is it? I was nearing 10 km on the treadmill when my vision blurred, my eye scrunched up leaving me looking like an elderly uncle in a sitcom and I wondered how I could feign nonchalance while dismounting the machine and relocate to the changing room to have a stroke in peace and quiet.
I plunged a kettlebell-scented digit in my eyeball area and calmed down; nothing to see here, officer, just the chemical reactionof day-old Rimmel and perspiration. But relief turned to exquisite pain (the sting intensifies for a wee while) turned to shame turned to a moment of Carrie Bradshaw-like reflection. “I learnt a lot that day …..”
Let’s break it down again. Training very hard. Mascara. Last night’s mascara. Last night’s mascara because I hadn’t bothered to take it off. Last night’s mascara because I’d drunk too much to bother to take it off. Training hard because I felt bad about drinking so much. Training hard while my veins were still pumping Shiraz.
The sting in the eye was a smack in the face, an epiphany. I’m a creature of extremes, I know that, but a great deal of my virtues are spurred on by intense guilt at the ridiculous things I do. Like running on a hangover. And I don’t mean to demonize booze but I have very little portion control. A glass is a glass is a glass is a bottle. So, we’re taking a break for a while, me and alcohol. A trial separation, if you will. And I have turned to the blogosphere for solace. Hence the title of this ditty. I am replacing wantoness with positivity, debauchery with gratitude. So in no particular order:
Thanks, Persephone’s Step-sisters for keeping me writing. The 100 things I’m good at exercise was ridiculously hard but well worth the struggle. Clown on Fire, you fart out rainbows like the creative and prolific unicorn that you are and I eternally admire you. Wake up Ami, your post on finding a passion really resonated with me. Let’s embrace indecision – I feel better already. And Robotic Rhetoric, you have the audacity of youth and the smarts to back it up. That you should be such a knockout writer at such a young age is a source of great envy to me. I look forward to the rest of the novel.
Enough. Before I get all weepy and Sally Field-ish on your ass.