I wanted to show you how incredible the moon looked tonight, especially offset by that wispy pink sugar-spun sky, but after trying my hardest to compose it just so, I realized I was taking pictures of a street lamp. In my defense, I had just finished up a really intense 15-minute jog/walk.
I forced myself to go for a run tonight because I’ve been reading The Slight Edge (which I affectionately consider to be more like the huge guilt trip). I used to be not horrible at running long distances and I wanted to clear my mind so I wouldn’t end up doing something weird again like deciding to sand my table in the middle of the night by hand.
I need a sander, by the way, and a lesson in carpentry.
I decided the healthy way to exert my energy was a good run, one of those runs that leaves you dry heaving and beet-red yet full of that fitness charisma. I used to always leave my place and then feel self-conscious that my roommates would judge me by how long my run was, which would in turn force me to stay out and exercise for a considerable length of time. But now I live alone, and there’s no shame in coming back to my place after just 15 minutes. That says something about my internal motivation that I don’t even want to confront right now.
I probably don’t need to tell you that I didn’t achieve a runner’s high, so the usual work stress, life stress, partially-sanded table stress circle in my head, as does the image of my co-worker standing behind me just as x-rated photos popped up on my computer and the hopelessly awkward conversation that took place afterwards.
What’s comforting after a long day though, is the promise of a comfortable couch I’ll relax in while watching old seasons of Louie until I fall asleep. Later, in some dreamy state, I’ll awake, glad to have had a break from thinking too much, beet-red, but only from sleeping in that peak-of-summer heat with the line marks from my corduroy couch imprinted on my skin from my knuckles to my face.