I couldn’t help reflecting last night, right around the time I fell into bed, totally wiped out from a very busy day, that yesterday I had earned the right to feel tired. And somehow, it felt like a good kind of tired, you know? I’d worked hard for that feeling.
Not too long ago, Sundays were all about being lazy. Chilling out, I used to call it. Which is kind of fat-girl speak for doing sweet sod all. In my fat-bubble, I’d lay in bed until late morning, cuddled up to Charlie-dog and reading the paper on-line, or maybe burning a couple of hours mooching my favourite handbag websites
First stop when I finally hauled my ass out of bed would be breakfast, closely followed by lunch because look, the little hand was nudging twelve so you know, it was lunchtime. God forbid I might miss a meal. My mum usually spends the day with me on Sundays, and after I’d collected her we’d usually go do a bit of food shopping before hitting the sofa for an afternoon of TV and chatter. All washed down with tea and hobnobs of course.
Then I’d cook something, and maybe have a quick snooze before taking mum home and returning to my big fat leather armchair for the rest of the evening. More often than not, as I hit the recline button I’d have the brass neck to declare how knackered I was, and how another Sunday had gone far too quickly.
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment things changed, in fact if I think about it I’m not sure there was ever any kind of Big Bang…it’s been more of a gradual thing, but let’s take yesterday as an example. I was out of the house by eight in the morning, with Charlie in tow…we covered about four and a half miles before I dropped him off at home and then drove down to the Kingdom of Pain.
I did two one-hour classes back-to-back…circuit training followed by boxing. Yeah, I’d raise an eyebrow too if I was reading this. What was I thinking? Well maybe it’s easier to share what I wasn’t thinking, you know? I wasn’t looking for excuses not to do it.
I’d booked the double class because work commitments on Friday meant I couldn’t work out, so I wanted to make up the session I missed. And I knew I was going to be busy with mum in the afternoon, which means Charlie would’ve missed out on his walk so I got up early to make sure we could fit it in. I didn’t try and negotiate any short-cuts with myself, because I enjoyed it.
The same can’t be said for the double helping of torture mind you…I didn’t enjoy that much. At all, in fact. But I didn’t try and negotiate my way out of it either. Mainly because God of Pain would’ve nailed me to the wall if I’d even thought about it, but also because even though I knew it’d be tough, I knew I could do it because you know what, I’m starting to think I might be tough…far tougher than I ever thought I was.
Fact is, I no longer harbour the belief that I can’t do it, because what I’ve come to realise is that no matter how much it’s going to hurt in the moment, I’ll come out of the other side with a sense of accomplishment. Those sore muscles and tired limbs are a kind of badge of honour, which serve to let me know that I’m one degree stronger than I was before, right?
When the actual fuck did that happen? That’s a monumental shift in attitude which has kind of sneaked up and said BOO…I hardly recognise myself.
I’ll take it though ?
