For some reason Wednesday has become my primary writing day, and I’m really not happy about that. I’m unhappy because it is also by far the busiest day of my week. I have next to nothing planned for tomorrow, and I did nothing of any particular value yesterday either. A more organised, more disciplined version of me might even consider taking advantage of the two, obligation-free days that bracket each week. But unfortunately the lazy, weekend-warrior version of me has been running the show for quite some time now, and has repeatedly expressed reluctance bordering on agitation whenever the topic of abdication has been broached.
I don’t hate Monday’s like so many Nine-to-Fivers apparently do. I understand the apprehension; trust me I’ve been there. And it’s not like I jump out of bed on a Monday morning, enchanted by the idea of another full week at the Dream Factory. It’s just that I’ve done enough of them to no longer find the Monday morning bitch-fest entertaining; You knew it was coming, you can literally set your clock by it; just knuckle down and get it over with.
Tuesday’s generally aren’t that bad either, apart from the fact that I go to a Stillness and Meditation session on my lunch break (more on that in a future post), during which I have more than once relaxed my mind to the point of slumber. Nearly falling off your chair in a room full of people is only so funny, so many times.
My Wednesday’s on the other hand, are a killer: I go to work, same as any other day. But on my lunch break I do a Pilates class, which is included in the membership fee of my local gym. I suffer from sciatica (amongst other things), and it helps to cure my aliments rather than masking them like an opiate would. I go on a Wednesday lunchtime because a) my friend talked me into and b) I’m relatively young, single, and do not in any way trust myself to consistently get out of bed first thing on a Saturday morning. (And obviously for c) the older ladies: Actual grannies bending over in actual granny pants? Jesus!)
Then its back to work, where I eat lunch at my desk and ostensibly do… whatever it is they pay me to do until punching out time. Then it’s back to the gym, where I hang around for an hour reading my Kindle or scrolling through social media until its time for my second class of the day: High Intensity Interval Training (H.I.I.T.).
I hate that class. I hate it so much! It is without a doubt the hardest thing I do all week. But god damn does it work! I’ve been an on and off gym-rat for more than a decade, during which time I had always subscribed to the traditional gym-rat rationale: spending each session focusing on specific muscle groups. What H.I.I.T. does is have you target multiple muscle groups at once, in a quick succession of short bursts. Which is great. It’s very effective, and by incorporating shorter versions of this type of training into the rest of my week, its produced notable results in a fairly short amount of time.
The only thing is is that it kill me. It kills me each and every time.
I get home on a Wednesday night and I am clinically dead to the world. I don’t wanna cook, I don’t wanna talk to anyone, I have very little interest in doing anything over than slumping into my arm chair, looking at a screen, and eating some Morley’s Fried Chicken. Which is what I typically tend to do.
But then, more recently, I’ve started to get The Itch™…
That craving to do something more productive with my time. That jingle-jangle feeling that stops me from picking up a Dual Shock, draws me towards the keyboard. To express myself, rather than wallow in someone else’s expression. The Itch™ is a bastard, but she is also my mistress. I try my hardest to resist her wiles, but she knows me far to well. My weakness, my strengths; the lady has me on lock.
Most annoyingly, she’s a fickle mistress; disappearing without warning, sometimes for years at a time. Then from nowhere I know of, she creeps back into my life and resumes total control. Unannounced and interested in how long its been since I last saw her. Chastising me for my apparent neglect and disinterest. I buckle to her whims whenever its possibly reasonable. I feel guilty if I don’t.
Well I say I buckle, but in the end I think she’s good for me, ya know? She means well, I think. Her heart is in the right place. She just has her wild side to her, that’s all. If only I could tame her a little, show her the life we would live…
The Itch™, my friends. It’s a beautiful thing. Except on a sodding Wednesday night, when I’m knackered. And I had other, far less rewarding things planned. Then it’s not so much.