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My body has decided that now is the time to overthrow its master.
The last eight months of my life have been incredibly stress-riddled and my immune system had graciously been granting me an easy time of it (with the exception of a few migraines and a thrown out back).
The day I signed off and signed out one final time, my throat started to feel kinda funny. I tried to brush it off as “dry air” and maybe sleeping with my mouth hanging open directly in front of my fan (no AC, hello LA heatwave).
But then my nose started to leak a little bit…and then a little bit more…and now I feel like a dam is about to burst and the citizens living in the valley need to evacuate.
The fog that’s currently obscuring my mental vision is keeping me from writing anything truly fancy or inspirational. Honestly, this blog post is just an excuse to have a pity party that I know at least 3 other people may read. THANK YOU THREE PEOPLE.
BUT–and that’s a big ol’ “BUT”– I swore to myself that when my last job ended, I would hustle even harder than before to get words on paper, to start creating and making, and generally force myself to stay on the grind.
With that in mind, I purposefully parked my car in a zone that required me to move it within two hours of the moment I parked there. I set my alarm for 1 hour and 55 minutes and then promptly sat down to watch Netflix.
When I saw the remaining 30 minutes on the clock slowly ticking down, I wrenched myself out of my chair, and pushed my body into the shower.
Growing up, I was always the kid in the family who refused to get into the bathtub. My poor mother would beg, cajole, and then eventually threaten me to get in. I’m assuming I thought baths were a waste of time and I had more important things to do like play or read or makeup songs on my kiddie-keyboard even though I didn’t know how to play it. Good personal hygiene was for the weak.
Whatever it was, I despised this basic and necessary daily ritual. When my mother finally got me in and wrestled me like an alligator to wash me, I would then refuse to get out of the tub. I would stay in playing with my toys and with my washcloth until the water became ice cold and my mother had to drag me out.
Nothing has changed.
Today was the same.
I ended up snatching myself out of the shower after only 20 minutes (miraculously), threw on some clothes without even really looking at what I was adorning my body in, and left my apartment.
Lo and behold, a golden parking space of opportunity shone forth: a parking spot with unlimited time and RIGHT in front of my apartment. These babies pop up only once a millennium, or so it feels like. Could I waste this moment and ever recover emotionally?
“What if,” says me, “I park in that spot, go upstairs, wallow in my oncoming disease, and take a nap.”
“No,” came my short response.
Well that settled that.
I got myself over to that coffee shop and here I sit–I’m making a writing schedule, sending off emails, responding to texts that it’s taken me an egregiously long time to respond to, and wondering why the guy sitting next to me at the community table must sit so damn close IT’S A HUGE TABLE, MISTER.
Hold me accountable, y’all. Time to work.