As I sit here in my hotel room in France, slurping my dinner of instant noodles down (to be followed with a dessert of milka chocolate) I’m not sure why I’ve decided to write about this, of all things, tonight. Maybe I feel like I owe the three people who were watching me struggle through the couch to 5k app an explanation as to why there haven’t been any posts recently. Maybe I don’t blog so much any more, as generate excuses where none were asked for.
But notice I haven’t apologised for not writing in a while this time? Not going to either. There’s a lot I could have, would have, written about, but it’s all seemed a bit off. Politics? Too many people spewing about that anyway. Work? Couple of NDA’s so that’s a no go. Travel? Yeah, been doing a bit of that in between the NDAing. I posted pics. Thanks for liking them.
The truth is, I don’t know if I’ve been fit enough to write. Not in the sense that I’m not fit enough to do the couch to 5k challenge (I had to stop three quarters of the way through week 2, day 2. My right knee and groin were definitely not having any of that running shit, and being without health insurance, in a foreign country, I thought it better to not risk doing myself a damage), but in the sense that my head’s not been there.
I need to approach writing a bit like couch to 5k, I suppose (and just so you know, I have not been paid by them to mention the app this many times). I need to do a bit more at a time, and build on it, to the point I can run a 5k… or finish a project in the equivalent. But while I’d list the reasons for not working out (self-conscious, irregular working hours, shitty joints, feeling like Sisyphus), you don’t need to delve into the fitness of my mind.
But I wrote a short last week. It was 3 pages, and it could have been longer, but I didn’t feel the need. It was short, and dark, and twisted, and it made me feel good. And now the wheels are turning. The reasons seem… stupid. Like excuses that don’t need to be made. And I want to do more. A bit like the feeling, not right when you finish running, but about an hour later when your body realises that pushing it isn’t (probably) going to kill you, and that maybe this isn’t such a bad thing to do on a little more regular basis.
So I’m giving myself a month. I’ve got this horrible little idea in my head, and it could be quite a weird little script, and I’m going to finish it in a month. Provided the mental equivalent of my right knee and groin don’t start giving my gyp.