Remember those swim lessons I was hesitant about doing? Well, the rec centre called to say my class had been cancelled. I felt relieved. Writing work is too important right now, and I'm glad the fates stepped in and decided for me.
This week has been reasonably good for training. I ran Monday morning, as mentioned (about 7km), and Tuesday morning early, with a friend, about 8km. Wednesday, after a particularly hard day of writing and then racing with children to music lessons, I was thrilled to be in a kick-ass 90 minute yoga class, working out all of the day's tension. Cap off the evening with a drink with friends, and my soul was cleared for the day. But yesterday my husband had to work early and late, and there was no possibility of seriously exercising. The walk to and from school had to suffice. I felt pretty restless last night. But not restless enough to rise early this morning to do something about it. I am always so tired by Friday morning. Again, it does not look like I will get any exercise today, other than the dragging-the-kids-around type. We will be skating after school, but it's hardly exercise to push a stroller around with two kids hanging off of it.
Tomorrow, I will have to get up early in order to squeeze in a run. I hope that I have the fortitude to do so.
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One more thing ... I am beginning to believe that this is a dead writing project. It has to do with the interior and individual nature of the pursuit. The further I get in the project, the more I see all around me people who are making similar attempts, and who would not be the least bit interested in mine. I think there's a good reason there are so many books with tips on "how-to" [fill in the exercise accomplishment here], and so few memoir-style books on the subject. Because, really, who cares? Who cares to hear that I've run 8km or even 28? As narrative, it does not pull a reader onward. It's a bit like reading a grocery list.
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