Last night, I was going to either cuddle into bed and work on Mom’s quilt, or put together the apron the girls and I cut out the other day. However, not terribly long after I got home, the power went out and stayed out for several hours. I ended up cuddling into bed to stay warm, reading for a bit, and then conking out for a few hours. I woke up briefly when the RLS kicked in, took my meds and conked back out until 7:30 this morning.
I love Fridays – I have the house to myself, businesses are open normal hours and I can Get Things Done. It’s my quiet, productive time and feeds my only child need for Personal Space. Thus far today, I’ve not gotten a whole lot done, though… I caught up on my news/blog feeds, cooked steel cut oats and fruit for breakfast, ran a load of laundry, played with the dogs, and nearly given myself a myocardial infarction on the exercise bike I brought in from the garage yesterday.
It started out innocently enough… I put on the latest episode of “V,” hopped on and started going. I tend to go too hard too fast when I exercise (as with many things in my life,) and my plan of 30 minutes clearly became unreasonable, given how out of shape I am. After 5 minutes, I felt pretty good, breathing hard, sweating a little. As 10 rolled by, 15 minutes was going to be a challenge. If I could have lowered the resistance on the bike, it would have been better, but it seems stuck somewhere in the middle. At 12 minutes, I had slowed down considerably and was becoming nauseated. At 13, my pace had dropped by probably 50% and I was watching the seconds slowly go by until 15 minutes hit.
At its highest, around 9-10 minutes, my pulse was 165 – bit too high.
I crawled off the bike and onto the couch, drinking a glass of water as I went. Ugh. I hate being this fat and out of shape. It’s got to change. I felt as wiped out after 15 minutes on relatively easy work on the bike as I did after my first (and last, as it turns out) competitive 5K run. Apart from swimming and dancing, I’m not wild about cardio. I should probably get one of those Latin dance workout DVD’s – I’d do that, provided no one was ever watching – and I’ll start getting back on the Wii Fit, too. It’s going to scold me – “Did you know it’s been 6 months since your last workout? And, holy wow – you have gained 15 pounds!”
As my energy slowly recharges, I’m debating running down to Canton and Ikea, or just to the bookstore a few miles down the road to pick up the first in a series of books by an author whose blog I’ve recently started reading. It’s not the sort of thing I would usually dive into, but I like the way her mind works, I enjoy her writing in her blog… I’ll give it a shot.
Is it worth an hour’s drive to Canton just to pick up a few sheets and maybe a rack or two? I could maybe see my friend, Victor, in Canton… or I could maybe cuddle back into bed and spend the day on Mom’s quilt. And napping. Too much stress and emotional turmoil has me absolutely exhausted.
While I’m out, maybe I’ll pick up a wig for Mike Neir, who shaved his stupid head yesterday. There are plenty of guys who look great bald – Mike Neir is not one of them. He may have to wear a hat permanently.
I’m mad enough to spit nails; mad enough to consider shaving my own stupid head to demonstrate the unpleasantness of a stubbly head in the coming months, and to force him to live with someone he has a hard time looking at, because she looks absolutely terrible. Having a bald girlfriend in the upcoming holiday pictures.
That would be cutting off my nose to spite my face, though, and I’d regret it about 18 seconds after doing it. It would probably be pretty liberating, though, I have to say.
Mike Neir’s analogy, when I asked him why he doesn’t go to a barber like a normal person, was this: It’s like changing your own oil to save money; why pay someone else to do it when I can do it myself? First, Mike Neir doesn’t change his own oil, which is more expensive than getting a haircut. Second, if changing one’s own oil resulted in one’s car looking like it just got spray painted with primer gray, then perhaps the analogy would hold up.
But it doesn’t.
It’s probably irrational, being this angry about a shaved head that will grow back – eventually. But dammit, it’s three to four months of just badness that I have to live with and look at now, and I’m all stressed out to begin with, and I probably should want a pony, too, to go along with my wahmbulance.
Alright, screw this. I’m taking a shower and going someplace.