La Vida Loca

I came home from another fun weekend of drinking and general shenanigans and vowed once again that it was time to get in shape starting Monday.

It's always on a Monday. Poor Monday. It just adds to the bad rap.  

Started slow.  A walk around the block, which is about a mile, so better than nothing.  The real test would come on Tuesday, when Evening Me started making plans for Morning Me to get the fuck up early and take a stroll before work. 

Which actually isn't tasking Morning Me with too much, considering I don't have to leave for work until 9 a.m. But when that alarm goes off, it's anything goes, and usually what goes is the snooze button. For about six rounds. 

Funny enough (strange, not haha), somehow (cats, I blame cats) my radio alarm got set to a Spanish station and now I'm awakened each morning to the Latin beats.  I think it's sort of like an immersion course, it can seep directly into my hypnogogic-state brain and the language will actually learn itself? I don't think that's quite right, maybe it's my brain that will learn itself? Whatever, something is getting learned. Maybe. Time will tell.  

Anyway.  This morning was the test, if I really meant it this weekend about getting in shape or if it was yet another best laid plan of Weekend Me. That alarm went off, I did a little cha-cha and hopped right outta bed, all proud and sleepy-eyed. At the ridiculously early hour of 7:45 a.m.  

In the MORNING, Reader. 

Early.  

Well, early by super-duper lazy people standards (finger points back at me). 

I threw on a pair of track pants and socks and sneakers that I laid out the night before, couldn't bother with a bra because that seemed tight and constrainy that early in the morning. My boobies were still asleep, for God's Sake, they weren't ready to be strapped into the reality of the day.

I brushed my teeth, threw on a shirt over a tank top (I did have a modicum of decorum, I didn't need my chest flouncing all down the street without a little restraint), looked at my bed-head top-knotted hair and decided it was good enough.  Who'd be out that early in the morning, after all? I didn't need to look presentable, I just needed to get a-walking.

Guess who's out that early in the morning, Reader?? Everyone, that's who. All the neighbors, with their dogs.  And old people.  Up and down the street I encountered person after person, me with my semi-flouncy boobs, no undies, and sticking-up top-knotted hair.  

But I marched around the neighborhood like a boss. A underwear-less boss.  With bedhead.  But a boss. 

And then I came home, drank a hot cuppa my Chaga tea, listened to a 10-minute morning meditation on the deck, hopped on the inversion table for a quick decompression and got on with my day. 

So yeah. I'm better than you. This once. Unless you did something crazy like get up and run places, or go to the gym at some crazy hour before the sun came up, then you win. But since you probably didn't I figured I'll be horribly insufferable for just this once. 

Because what are the chances it'll happen two days in a row?   I mean, I have plans for it, Reader. I've even put a pair of underwear next to my track pants for tomorrow. I'm optimistic.  But it can really go either way once the Latin beats go off in the a.m.  I may decide to stick with my Spanish lessons.