Pro: 5 sober days behind me. Con: I’m super cranky and want to die.
I could linger and languish in this mild achievement of… glances at Quit That! app… 138 sober hours. After all, the first 90-some-odd hours are notoriously the most treacherous. Instead, I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally perturbed. Angry. Pissy. Crotchety. Tense. Surly. I’m so many superfluous adjectives, I’m getting residual royalties from the thesaurus factory. I’m sure the dryness has more than a little to do with my body chemistry being off-kilter; all the cells in my body shrieking to be fortified with a little* gin so I can calm the fuck down. Apart from that, however, everything else seems to be falling apart, too. The few friends I have left are pulling away. Last week, my fourteen-year-old car decided to lurch from this mortal coil and declare a permanent state of inoperability. My credit is awful. Buying a new-to-me car is going to take money and energy I just don’t fucking have; I’m monetarily broke and momentarily broken.
I’ll cut to the chase: I woke up around 7am, shoved my wobbly 34-year-old body into my now ill-fitting running apparel, then hit the pavement around 8:30am (my cat, Big Bertha, was asleep, yet still demanding of my attention, you understand).
Today’s stats: 1.51 miles // 14:53 time // 9:52 pace.
I know it’s a very, very modest improvement in distance from yesterday’s hilarious maiden voyage, but there’s a key difference: I wasn’t on the brink of spontaneous combustion. Felt okay, actually. Breathing and cadence also improved, so I’ll take it. I still needed to stop at a mile and a half, but that’s actually for the best, which is to say, keep the mileage low for now and accumulate the miles at a consistent clip.
This past summer, I was training for what would’ve been my third marathon slated for fall, but wound up busting my right quadricep after doing too much, too soon. My impatience is my fatal flaw. That said, I’m humbled by my body and its need to just… ease in on leaning in.
Oh! And! I haven’t smoked in two days. AND! I didn’t buy cigarettes yesterday or today, even though I was at the market and very well could have and very much wanted to. My lungs are probably like, “bitch, wtf? Make up your goddamn mind!”