Haven’t been posting about it since my shame receptor burned out, but going to the fitness club is now painless. Helpful hint if I ever fall off again:
- Change your SHIRT AND BRA AT WORK;
- Change your PANTS AND SHOES AT GYM.
Changing clothes is my least favorite part of the process. I hate flapping my tits at the gym (terrifyingly packed with coworkers) while I try to untangle my sports bra. I hate changing pants and shoes at work, because our floors are not safe to touch and my ride is waiting while I fumble with keeping shoe soles from touching work clothes. It works well to split them. Takes less time at each end, lowers stress all the way around.
Still need to find a reliable distraction. One session on the treads was wrecked by having more than half of the TVs showing the same revolting right-wing news show, with the other two TVs valiantly screeching about the same stressful crazy-time stuff from the “please don’t kill people without good cause” / AYFKM end of the spectrum, with the rest being two-teams-I-don’t-care-about-playing-football-poorly. UGH. But I can’t read when I am treadmilling it, I hate podcasts / being read to, and my music choices always, always fail when I make playlists in advance.
Failing so far, not worried for now. I have a plan that is ready to execute, but I also have a workplace happy hour tonight.
Unhappy hour. We’re all ready to quit or burn the place down. One reason for the happy hour tonight is to break in a new team member, see if we’re heading toward jelling, or heading toward disaster. The person seems like a dim shipwreck but we’re desperate here.
Has been better. LOTS better. Home-prime is alienated for both of us. My best friends are struggling with marriages and illnesses and newly emptied nests and new normals. My own reason for being is having surgery next month. My aunt is guilt-tripping me to visit her before she dies, and my baby sister, who is still in her 30s, not only had her breast cancer return, but found that it’s metastasizing. That gut-ache is too much to talk about now, or here.
Visualizing what I look like in a state of rich contentment is depressing. Had a panic attack at work yesterday, leading me to skip the gym, go to the store, have junk food for dinner, and not do as I had intended and make a plan for mental health. Hell is certain.