Emotionally, I feel so flat this week.
It's like I'm living my life from behind a thin gray veil. I know what this is. It's the ugly animal, depression, rearing its nasty head. It's been intruding in my life since I was 15. On and off I've taken medication for this, and in the past few years I've been able to manage without much of anything.
My most recent regimen has been nothing more than endorphins and BenGay.
This week's blah could easily be attributed to any of the following:
10 mile run (immediate high afterwards, then three days of fatigue and/or difficulty sitting on the toilet)
I've been out of Shakeology for a week now. (Thank God it's on its way!) But I think the sudden withdrawal of all those concentrated vitamins and whatever other kinds of
crack good stuff they put in there has left me a bit dull.
My hormones are...ummm.....MESSED UP. I'm hopeful my body will iron itself out with some semblance of urgency, or else you are likely to see me on the news for attacking someone with a wire hanger at the dry cleaners. (And I don't even use the dry cleaners!)
I've only gotten one good run in this week. I'm beginning to feel that daily workouts are in my near future as I have obviously built up a tolerance to the amount of endorphins one can earn with a 10 mile run.
Now, more than ever, I get the connection between my emotions and my physical body. When I treat one area well, the other seems to follow. So there are some things coming up on my calendar that I think will go a long way towards lifting this fog.
My Shakeology will be here SOON! (Yay
crack vitamins!)I should get a run in tomorrow and have scheduled a long run with one of my "lifers" on Saturday. She'll be in from out of town and we are planning on some solid mileage happening that morning. There is a conversation penciled in for tomorrow with My Emily in which we are going to discuss the likelihood of me doing P90x. She's only the most inspiring person I know, so I already know how it's going to sound: "Sara, you should totally do P90x. It's awesome!"
And then I'll cry for 90 days.
And if all of that isn't enough to jolt me out from behind this veil, the inaugural meeting of my new cooking club meets next week. There will be great food, smart, funny women, and alcohol disguised as something fruity.
Who needs big boobs when you have endorphins, Ben Gay, and girl time with alcohol disguised as something fruity?
Apparently, not me.