You are fired up at work and aim to accomplish a lot, but friction may arise with your co-workers if you are too impatient and pushy. You are not much of a team player right now and it would be better if you could work on your own.
I am a little concerned at having my daily ministrations played out among my terribly literate neighbours, but there you have it. Right now, I am what I am and I don't really care if anyone reads this sneeringly, in a bored fugue state or not at all.
Today I found myself back at work, staring blankly at the screen while the work piled relentlessly on my desk. This may sound as though I didn't enjoy it but nay, it is not so. It just takes a while to adjust after an absence of writing; it takes time to recapture the speedy flex of the wrist, the mindless and occasionally accurate touch of the fingertips to the keyboard (I curse the decision made in my mindless and occasionally accurate youth to abandon all ye hope of ever learning to type).
This is not to mention the necessity of thinking, of which I have done little in recent days. Unless navel gazing counts.
At the moment my mind is preoccupied with how I may tackle this diary of a budding fitness queen I have long intended to write - so prepare to be bored further. Let us think of motivation.
Much elusive, as it tends to be.
I rarely procrastinate, pontificate or ruminate on any subject as that involving my body, its movement, or lack thereof. The poor thing has been put through its paces over the years - it's been starved, stuffed, doused in endless amounts of alcohol, pumped full of drugs, suffused with hormones, poked, prodded and picked at any which way. At all times it has been regarded with mistrust and wariness, like a Bengal tiger lying supine but ready to pounce with an almighty roar when pushed a little too far. It is unreliable and awkward, never quite right and the source of much misery and anger. But it is not alone - in fact, I'm not even sure it's to blame.
Although I have been distracted over the years by alarming wobbling bits that appear and disappear on occasion, my fixation on this body has very cleverly concealed the real culprit, the snivelling rat that hides in corners and whispers defeat, defeat, defeat. Ah yes, the mind. Able to cover its tracks at every juncture, the mind turns inward and onward but always, always on itself. What has this got to do with motivation? Everything, it seems. Left to its own devices, the mind - which, by the way, is the puppet-master in this endless little play - the mind plants little ticking time bombs inside every well formulated plan. "I will exercise every day!" says the cheery, hopeful mind ("no, no you won't" it hisses). "I am not in the mood for chocolate!" the pious mind announces ("but you deserve it, oh you do ...")
And on and on and on goes the duality of mind. It's a trickster! A fraud! And I'm turning its tricks on itself.
Like today. I finished work in a gloomy state, still piled with work, hungry, dusty and dry. The whispering started. "Go home!" the mind hissed, in pleasant enough tones. "You can cook dinner, relax on the couch, get back to that book you've enjoyed reading so much..." But I turned to my mind with a blank, guileless stare. It started to panic. "Go HOME!" it hissed insistently. "Your legs are still sore from yesterday - do you really want to suffer through another set of lunges?"
I gathered my things. My mouth opened. "Ah-ha!" thought the mind, "now's my chance". "Trish," I wheedled, "My legs hurt ..." And she smiled. And we smiled at each other. "...but I'm not giving up yet. Come on, let's get going." And we went. And we went!
Now my legs really do hurt. And it feels damn good. There is hope yet.
Addendum: The Bridget Jones rip-off part. Today I consumed:
Breakfast: One flat white
Two slices of Burgen rye bread with small can of baked beans
Lunch: Two slices same bread with pkt tuna with herbs and sliced polskis.
Handful of fresh cherries
One cup Moroccan mint green tea
Dinner: Lamb stir-fry with peas, green beans, broccolini, zucchini, red onion and honey barbeque sauce. One cup of basmati rice.
Alcohol consumed: none.