That's not an exaggeration.
And, if I'm gonna level with ya, that's not all.
But, "The 2 and a half days I watched 11 episodes of Downton, 5 episodes of Mad Men & paired 4 bottles of wine with 4 bags of popcorn" doesn't quite present the same literary aesthetic.
You see, it all started when I injured my neck Sunday morning. I was attempting a classic female move equivalent to the tuck and roll. The freshly applied makeup was combating with the already assembled ponytail as I tried to get on my sweatshirt.
We've all been there. Where instead of taking the .05 seconds it may take to reassemble either feature, the tuck and roll is assumed. What follows is turtle-like maneuver where the neck submerges into the spine, twisting while doing so, in an effort to save time and frustration by not messing up said makeup NOR ponytail.
On most days, this ever-so practical jig results in a couple curse words, a mouthful of cotton and the inevitable need to take .05 seconds to revert what you just attempted to avoid.
On this Sunday morning however, my smeared face emerged from the sweatshirt and I looked over to the....oh fudgicles.
I wasn't looking over anything. That son of a bee sting was as stuck as brownies to a pan.
After initial attempts to remedy proved ineffective, I assumed the position.
Couch. Heating pad. Gaze straight forward. Right at the Crawleys, the goblets, the English countryside and all other visuals that would become my world for 2 days (err, 2 and a half).
By hour 3 I assumed I had bed sores. I never sit that long except to sleep and even then I channel my inner Mexican jumping bean. I had become one with the couch, the living room and the things I tend to avoid in vast quantity the large majority of the time.
I didn't even TRY to use my time effectively or healthfully.
Respond to emails? Oh hell naw, not when Cousin Violet is pissed heir Matthew is going to get the family's fortune.
Write a blog? Psssh, don't we all know you can't type and put pretzels in your mouth at the same time?
READ? Why make my eyes do more work than necessary and honestly, isn't there something to be said about knowing English aristocracy and America's early ad agencies policy on day drinking?
I did.not.give.a.fork.
Well that's not true. I gave a fork to my pasta and a spoon to my ice cream.
Because that's the other thing, I was ravenous. My body, who is normally running alongside my mind in an effort to keep up with demands, wiping her freckled forehead on an Umbro sweatband while throwing rice cakes at her commander, had stopped. And she had stopped on the side of the road and had found her way into a 24hr diner. Without the structure of a normal day (or at least one that sees daylight and you like, do things) I was a one hungry little hippo.
My normal foods, in typical quantities, just weren't doing the trick. It's a good thing I was physically unable to go to the grocery store cus I would've Supermarket Sweeped the shite outta Shaws. Sitting there after a 1/2cup of oats with peanut butter, watching Lady Grantham dine with her comrades, I'd think of how good some leftover chicken and rice would be. And BBQ sauce because, hey, delish. Let's grab some nuts for a crunch, which pairs very well with popcorn. And then after savory, I'd need a sweet to cap it all off. And thus continues the cycle.
When you don't go anywhere, don't move and don't participate in anything besides British humor, eating almost feels constant. And the thing was, on Sunday, I did not currrr.
On Monday my neck was still jacked up, my emotions were slightly dampened and my hunger decided to stick along for the ride. I assumed the position once again, claiming a shower the success of the day.
Tuesday I woke up feeling like a bloated sloth and about as productive as one without thumbs. The range of motion in my neck had improved to the point where I could likely drive to a chiropractor appointment in the city and, fingers crossed, maybe even brush my teeth. I naturally started the day on the heat pad and flicked on the tube.
However, something funny started to happen as I went to click the center "Play" button of our Firestick (uh obviously I want to watch another...dafuq Amazon we know each other now).
I started to get, antsy. I started to feel curious about the world outside my chaise lounge. I wanted water and fresh air. My ingrained habits were surfacing, pleading for oxygen and something other than an English matriarch's approval of ball gowns.
But here's the funny thing- while my old habits were itching, my new ones were dangling on. Getting up, stretching my legs, extending what was now a very full stomach and unmotivated mind was...tough. It took a wee bit-o-effort to get my slow moving arse in gear and it wasn't just because of the physical limitations.
So some lessons learned from my horizontal hiatus.
Habits are hard to break. My ingrained desires could only be suppressed for so long before my ponytail sought some spunk. And on the flip side, the desire to embrace"nothingness" can be damn powerful too.
And alas, allow me to state the obvious...both are needed. If I thought I was balanced, this popcorn fueled reprieve proved otherwise. Ya can't go 110mph and expect to get good gas mileage (that makes sense my auto aware friends right?) and you can't feel powerful when you're constantly idling at 0 (again, yes?).
I've learned it's not just productivity, sweat and discipline that fuels the tank, sometimes you need to move on over to the slow lane and let others pass you, throw that window down, let in some TLC...you'll still arrive at your destination and you'll be happier when you do.
No comments:
Post a Comment