Hey, I know enough about writing to know that you should always write to your audience. Today, though, I'm writing for myself. It's going to be boring as hell for you, especially the guys. But I promise things will start to get MUCH more interesting after I hit the road on Saturday. I promise!
Let me say one more time: It’s been a fantastic summer. I never liked the expression, “All good things must come to an end,” but it really is time for me to move on. Of course I’ll miss everyone, especially Connor and Baby Hazey, but I’ve already booked my flight to Albany for the holidays, so I won’t be gone too long before I’m back again.
Even though I started working three weeks after I arrived here, I feel like I’ve been on a five-month vacation. And vacations are not good for the body! You know how much weight you can gain during a one-week getaway? Imagine five months of eating and drinking and socializing and eating and drinking some more.
Since Lori and I hit the road in mid-May, I’ve hardly exercised at all except when I was in Vegas for those two weeks in September. Mike and I exercised a lot (giggity). I mean we walked three and a half miles every day. It felt great and I can’t wait to get back into that routine. My body is crying for it! I’ve never been in such crappy shape in my life; I haven’t gone this long without doing yoga since I started practicing it 13 years ago.
I know there are people out there who haven’t exercised literally in years. I can’t imagine. There really is an incredible mind-body connection, and when you’re in good shape everything in life seems to flow a little smoother. You really do have a lot more energy. Right now I feel shitty. Not achy and painy; it’s more mental than anything. I feel guilty for letting myself go. I’ve always had a pretty hot body and I’m not just saying that because you know I’m so friggin’ full of myself. Seeing this middle-aged spread in the mirror and in pictures is just so depressing.
You know how you hear about the 800-pound guy who can’t even leave the house because he can’t fit through the goddamn door and you think, “Jesus, dude, wasn’t it a wake-up call once the scale tipped 500?” I feel like this is my 500-pound wake-up call. And I’m gonna answer it.
I like to think I have a lot in the “exercise bank” from all the ballet and yoga I’ve done since I was a kid, and it probably won’t take too long before I spring back to a less disgusting state. But sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to get in “smokin’ body” shape again; maybe it’s too late. That would suck.
I'm really going to try, though.