I've been feeling a bit blue lately, which I attributed to my recent wrassle with a big, honkin' pile of receipts and the sleeping fears it woke the hell up. It made sense to me, and still does, that small and pesky unattended woes become bigger with time and without examination and correction. Like, no duh.
What I'd completely forgotten, AGAIN, was the role that daily maintenance plays in good mental health. Physical activity. Diet. Rest. (And yes, "rest" is different than "sleep"; I know, because my body overrides my will to not sleep but I always win the battle of work over rest.)
And "play" falls somewhere in there, too. At least, I'm pretty sure it does; traditionally, I've been a little shaky when it comes to the work/play pas de deux.
So this weekend, after working my ass off, I ran it around a little. Twice. And ate halfway decently...well, a few times. And while I worked a little, I also played a little bit more. With my b.la crew. With The Boyfriend. And, oh, bliss, with a good chunk of sunny Saturday afternoon, my bed and a New Yorker.
And whaddya know, two days later I feel at least three times better (well, these things aren't precisely quantifiable, but you get the idea).
It's still work to make myself play and it's still a pain hauling my carcass around a mile or so of neighborhood. But I have a feeling without the run, the rest, the food, the play, the work starts to suffer at some point. Hell, everything starts to suffer. (Certainly the people in spitting range start to suffer.)
So tomorrow, I work. And run. And maybe, if there's a little time somewhere in the day, crack open another old New Yorker...