This whole exercise thing has gone to straight to hell this week. In fact, February itself has turned into one of those months where every minute has been booked and re-booked — with meetings, events, appointments, chauffeuring duties.
It’s the sort of month where I can’t work at work because I’m too busy working — organizing, answering emails, putting out fires, attending meetings.
So my head is spinning, and I’m drowning in a sea of piles — piles of stories needing writing, press releases needing releasing, emails needing sending, socks and dishes needing washing and kids needing feeding.
My lungs are not helping. Like everyone else at work, I seem to be fighting a cold. My lungs are filled with fluid; my asthma, aggravated.
The asthma part is my own fault. I hate taking meds, and my case of asthma is so small, it doesn’t seem worth taking anything — that is, it doesn’t until times like these hit.
But I’m tired of feeling guilty, and I am just plain tired. So tonight I’m going to proudly bear the title of failure at fitness and go to bed.
Tomorrow and the next day and the next day, I’ll try it all again.
Isn’t that what it’s all about?
And, maybe, one of these days I’ll change the name of my blog to success at fitness.