As of yesterday, my new exercise program has lasted 11 days in a row. So far so good, or at least I’ll have to hope so, because it’s sucking the life out of me. I still enjoy the pleasure of appropriately sore muscles the next day, that knowledge that I’m working what I need to work, and when it’s too nasty hot to walk outside during the day, Paul and I can go for a nice evening stroll. It’s a lovely time in L.A. for blooming flowers, especially jasmine, which has perfumed my entire neighborhood (including my own backyard).
"Downward-facing dog, my ass."
Post-exertional malaise is like a non-sparkly vampire that’s serious about things and doesn’t only want to glare longingly at you. It’s not just about falling asleep for five hours after a 20-minute walk, or feeling like every day is the first day of the flu. It also sucks away my creativity, which is something I take very personally. I’d rather give blood, especially when I’m currently in the middle of several writing projects about which I am seriously excited. My body doesn’t care that I’m excited, though; it’s too busy punishing me for going out in the sunlight. It doesn’t care that I love writing, and that I’m immeasurably frustrated when I can’t get my brain in gear because I did three Wii Fit exercises the day before.
I try to stay positive and I am so, so lucky to have Paul as well as collaborators who are wonderfully patient and understanding about my situation. I am grateful for that every day. Sometimes the physical stuff just overwhelms everything else.
Zen is a pretty good yoga teacher, but I’m sending you off with an even more impressively stretchy, not to mention giant, Burmese.
