The title of today's post has less to do with the odor emanating from the running shoe box in my office than my present psychological state.
I don't think it will every be sunny in this goddamned city ever again. We have had 3 nice days in the past 30 (I am not counting the three days were it was over 90 degrees-that is not "nice"-"nice" is when you can sit outside in the afternoon and drink a beer without sweating through three t-shirts and risking heatstroke). Three.
The shoulder is taking much longer to heal than originally anticipated. I have already changed Blue Lake and Pac Crest to non-swimming events. And I had been consoling myself by thinking that Vashon Island was in 6 weeks and I had 4 weeks to get back to the pool. My concept of time is almost as screwed up as my mountain bike navigational skills. Vashon Island is a month from tomorrow. I can't get the PT office to call me back to set up an appointment. Am getting really crabby.
It's week six of boyfriend-less-ness. The intense psychic relief that I felt for the first few weeks has been replaced with a not insignificant bit of loneliness. It's not helping that Emily is leaving for Colorado in nine days. That'll be a big void that I'll have to fill over the next 6 months.
I have zero interest in doing the training that is necessary to take it to the next level. I desperately need to find something to help me, as Mo says, "harden the fuck up." Maybe the new mountain bike that I will be purchasing sometime very soon will help me find the motivation I need to make it through this funk.
I don't think it will every be sunny in this goddamned city ever again. We have had 3 nice days in the past 30 (I am not counting the three days were it was over 90 degrees-that is not "nice"-"nice" is when you can sit outside in the afternoon and drink a beer without sweating through three t-shirts and risking heatstroke). Three.
The shoulder is taking much longer to heal than originally anticipated. I have already changed Blue Lake and Pac Crest to non-swimming events. And I had been consoling myself by thinking that Vashon Island was in 6 weeks and I had 4 weeks to get back to the pool. My concept of time is almost as screwed up as my mountain bike navigational skills. Vashon Island is a month from tomorrow. I can't get the PT office to call me back to set up an appointment. Am getting really crabby.
It's week six of boyfriend-less-ness. The intense psychic relief that I felt for the first few weeks has been replaced with a not insignificant bit of loneliness. It's not helping that Emily is leaving for Colorado in nine days. That'll be a big void that I'll have to fill over the next 6 months.
I have zero interest in doing the training that is necessary to take it to the next level. I desperately need to find something to help me, as Mo says, "harden the fuck up." Maybe the new mountain bike that I will be purchasing sometime very soon will help me find the motivation I need to make it through this funk.
2 comments:
Meh. Do you think that maybe the supraspinatus got torn--something more than strained? I am sure it is so tempting to ease back in to swimming-- I admire you for knowing you have to ease off even when it sucks to do that.
You are always welcome here in the land of neurotic dissertators.
New bike? w00t!
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