Detox and Zombies

I remember a few key points about 9th grade. It was my first year in the High School with all the big kids. I was still recovering from a wicked golf cart accident that to this day I blame my memory loss, lack of direction and slight lack of balance on. And it was the year I had discovered weed.

The high school had this pesky D.A.R.E cop.
He had his own office and walked around like he was a real police man. He was in charge of the D.A.R.E program. He spewed the catch phrase "Just say no" In reference to drugs, alcohol, sex and probably rock and roll too.

He was a total fun hater, who clearly had never smoked a bowl in his life.

In 9th grade the phrase "Just say no" was killing all of our teenage wild souls.
Rebellion ran thick in all of our blood and saying no was the last thing any of us wanted to do.

Fast forward Ten *cough* years.

Here I sit. Stressed out, worn thin, tired as hell all the time and resentful of those who get to spend an entire day doing nothing.

2012 was going to be the "me" year.
The year I was only going to do things that brought me happiness.
A year of elimination.
No stress. No worries. No wearing myself thin and running myself into the ground.

This is the year I'm just saying NO.

I've decided to put my 2 weeks notice into the Bar gig.
I didn't come to this decision easily. As a matter of fact it's all I've been thinking about lately.
I've even taken polls from friends and family and logged the results in the form of a pie chart.
Pro's and con's lists are all over my house.

The results are a no brainer, yet there's always that slight twinge in my mind that holds a dollar sign. But at what point do you draw the line between money and happiness?

Me? I'm at the point where time is more valuable than the dollar.

I want to spend lazy Saturday mornings with my husband and dogs watching TV. Or lay out in my back yard all afternoon long with a cocktail and a good book. I want to camp, or hike or go out of town for the weekend. I want to spend weekends up at the lake or down at the bay. I want time to plant a fucking garden or maybe take a spur of the moment road trip. I feel like for the last 5 years of working 2 jobs I've just been a husk of myself.

I look back on how silly and light hearted I used to be. Even, dare I say... Spontaneous.
I mean, sure I've always been a stressed out list maker rubbing worry stones who has an agenda and a plan at all times but now I'm at least giving myself the option to get my old self back.
A self who isn't so cramped on time every week, or has to cram one million things into one night because after 60 hours of work in a week that's all you have left.

I'm ready to not be a walking zombie.

I'm ready to slow down, take some time and enjoy life.

On that same note, I've turned down every race I've been asked to run this year as well. This year, I'm running for me. Not for time, not for pace, not for cutting minutes off miles. This year I'm running where ever I want to, and taking however fucking long as I'd like. On my own terms. In my own time.

It's time to detox life and get back to the basics.

I'll let you know if I suffer any withdrawl symptoms.

Mad love ya'll.

I might as well have IBS

Grief can hit you anywhere. Just like diarrhea. The holidays are always particularly difficult but this year went smoother than most. I wasn't side swiped by a breakdown.
As a matter of fact it was quite the opposite. I had lucked out on a little time off from both jobs, had some good ME time complete with bad decisions and hangovers as far as the eye could see. Yet, something lingered. The perfect storm perhaps?
A couple years ago I was side swiped by a left hook of emotion at a traffic intersection.
This year? It was the week after Christmas. At the gym during a totally sick weight lifting session on chest. In the middle of all my testosterone-induced man-rage and awesomeness I felt my eyes well. With anger.
Then sadness.
I finished up my session and stretched while fighting off alligator tears the entire time.
I got in my car and broke the hell down. My toughness displayed in the gym was now a liquid pile of goo that just wanted to be held and for someone to understood what I felt and that it wasn't fair. --- Some rocking me might have been quite pleasant too.
It was the kind of cry that no sound comes out. Just silent, awkward facial movements and deep gasps for air.

I've come to the conclusion that time does not heal all wounds.

Time is like that one junk closet that every one has in their house. You stuff random shit in there because there's no where else for it to go but you can't throw it away. But you know one day, inevitably you have to clean that fucking closet out.