Defier of Logic, Drinker of Coffee

So very, very tired.  I agreed..no.. wholeheartedly volunteered/flung myself at the opportunity to cover the early shifts at work for the second week running.  Not because I'm some kind of saintly, generous soul who thinks only of helping out her fellow man in the work place.  It's because it means I get to do a little "enjoy the rest of your shift, suckaaas!" dance on my way out the door at 3pm while my well rested co workers ferret away at their computers for another couple of hours.

While it is true that I do get to leave the office at 3pm (in theory, depending on how much left over faffage I have from the day's work), what I neglected to factor into my decision was the fact that I really, really like sleep.  If sleep was a person, I would marry it.  

But. In order to get to work on time and fit in a short dog walk (let's face it, a Becky walk - the dog has made his desire for "just another 5 minutes' sleep.." clear more or less every day that I've dragged him out of the house), I have to get up at 5am.  A weird hour which is neither day nor night, and when the only other people around are nurses coming home from night shifts, insomniacs and other people who have made bad decisions.  Because of this Godforsaken waking hour that no amount of coffee can remedy the effects of, I've been completely and totally bollocksed by 8pm like clockwork.  

I've been getting into bed at about 9 each night, praying for a solid 8 hours' sweet, sweet unconsciousness and instead waking intermittently for the first hour or so (after a decent to improper amount of Facebook scrolling of course) because I'm convinced that it's morning as the sun hasn't even gone down yet.  I'm later woken again when the residents of the house (Andy and my small zoo) come up to bed at a normal, functioning-human hour and then again several more times in the night because I'm having mini panic-wakes because "Agh! It's only a couple of hours before I have to get up!"

My life choices often defy logic in this kind of way.  Of course 2 weeks of waking at arse crack o' clock = sleepy and barely functioning.  And yet I would still lunge at the chance to go to work at 4am if it meant I could leave at midday.  Or even offer to do the same shift indefinitely ("You mean I get to leave at 3 EVERY day? Wow!  Sign me up!") if the chance came my way. Common sense eludes me.  Here are some other ways that I laugh in the face of logic:

I eat until I'm immobile

Anyone who has read more than one of these blog posts (thank you, you lovely person if you have!) will know that to say I am a fan of food is like saying that erroneously trusting a fart in white trousers would be a little bit embarrassing.  It's a massive understatement. 

Clarification: I have never sharted in public, but I couldn't think of anything more unpleasant that could hypothetically happen as an example.  Let's be honest, if I had that kind of experience, I would have blogged about it already.  I have little to no shame.  Also my thoughts go out to anyone who has lived through the trauma of public sharting.  Your bravery in soldiering on is commendable.  Everything in this paragraph is indicative of how tired I am.  Help me.

Moving on from shart based digression: I start every meal telling myself that I am going to eat only enough for me to be able gain an adequate amount of nourishment.  Like you're supposed to.  Once I have done that, I reward myself with further mouthfuls.  Sometimes I reward myself so much that I spend whole evenings clutching my stomach and asking the ceiling "why, God, why?"  God has never spoken back to me, because s/he knows I already know the answer.  It's because I am a greedy so-and-so who will eventually be the proud owner of four chins.   It's good to achieve things in life.

I broadcast my failings

Okay, maybe not failings.  Mishaps.  I'm cack-handed by nature and so am frequently betrayed by my own body's inability to perform simple tasks.  I've unintentionally thrown things I'm holding at the floor whilst standing still.  I'm skilled in tripping over nothing at all.  I've been known to choke on air...you know, that stuff that keeps you alive?  Lots of these things are done without witnesses, so if I wanted to, I could maybe portray myself as a semi capable hominoid if I really wanted to.  Instead, every time I've done something inexplicably stupid like temporarily forget what the number 9 looks like or trying to hang up my work phone by lightly smacking the receiver against the table instead of the holder, I immediately look for people I can tell about it.  I think it's because my body is constantly finding new and fun ways to fuck my day up a little bit and I want to share my awe of its stubborn independence and creativity with others.

I always find ways to piss Future Me off

This goes hand in hand with the whole eating-until-I'm-in-pain thing.  I know that doing the thing is going to have consequences I'm not going to want to deal with later, so in the long run, it's actually easier to not do the thing.  

However,  Present Me doesn't care.  Future Me is a whiny bitch who'll just have to suck it up and get on with it when the times comes.  Which is all well and good until Future Me becomes Present Me, who is gobsmacked and infuriated by Past Me's audacity at leaving Present Me all of those dishes to do/ making her have to get up from bed twenty bajillion times to go to the loo to relieve herself of the twenty gazillion pints of water she had before sleeping/ leaving her staring forlornly at her bereft bank account because Past Me decided that money is just a concept and therefore not real.  Past Me is a dick.

I assume that THIS will be the time that I drink and don't get a hang over. Every. Single. Time.

Self explanatory.  I blame Past Me.

Note: Am not currently drinking.  I might defy logic, the but having to get up at 5am after a Thursday night booze up in my jammies makes me want to cry.  I'm illogical, not insane.

I drink coffee as a remedy for stress

Yup.  That rocket fuel made ground-up of jitters and fear is the perfect, soothing remedy for a tough day at the office when you need your wits about you at all times.  It's so much easier to type when your fingers are engaged in involuntary jazz hands.  Genius.

I could go on.  Maybe I'll do a part 2 some time.  I'd better round this up now, because it's 5 minutes to 8pm and if experience has taught me anything, I'm about to fall asleep sat bolt upright with my mouth hanging open.  

I'll leave you with this -  A photographic depiction of logic slapping me in the face while I remain blissfully unaware of it:

 

Actually, it's me drinking a mojito at Christmas time, leaning on my own hand.  Also, I don't know if logic would wear a fitbit.

...Goodnight!

It Aint So Bad...

Happy day-after-Halloween!  I hope you're also suffering a food hangover from the excess Haribo you bought for the Trick-or-Treaters that never came.  I think 80 mini bags might have been a smidge ambitious.  Oh, well.

I read a bloody good book last week.  I'm partial to autobiographical essay books (Lena Dunham's Not That Kind of Girl, Tina Fey's Bossypants, anything by Augusten Burroughs and so on and on and on...), and while I was scanning my bookshelf for something to re-read until payday came around and I could buy something new/re-enter into society, I found that we've had one that I'd not read, sitting there for nearly three years screaming:

OI, DIPSHIT!! You bought me because you knew I'd be good, so just bloody read me already!!

...Or probably something a bit less crass, because it was by Derren Brown.  Confessions of a Conjuror is brilliant.  It's just one great, big, weird train-of-thought narrative where he meanders from card tricks, to odd habits and even at one point to instructions on how to poach an egg.  

My favourite bits were lists he'd made of his odd compulsions, many of which I found I have in common e.g When driving, he has an urge to just close his eyes and see what happens.  I've never acted it out, but on several occasions, I've thought;

"If I just locked the steering wheel right now, would I survive the crash?" Not even in a morbid way, just a kind of mild curiosity, knowing I'd never really act on the impulse.*  All the way through the book, I wanted to create some similar lists of my own, and I've settled on "borrowing" his idea of listing the things we find oddly pleasurable despite always avoiding doing them until the last minute (like cleaning the house and coming over all calm because the chaos around you is dormant at last).  Mostly because I felt more people are prone to procrastination over mildly pondering their own demise on a quick jaunt to Tesco.  Here goes:

Doing the Dishes

Just being in the house with more unwashed dishes than is necessary makes me edgy, but instead of just buggering on and doing them, I will huff and glare at the house's other occupants (cat included) and bore holes in their skulls with my eyes for not reading my mind and doing them for me.  The second I pick up a sponge, I relax.  Something lovely about having my hands all warm and knowing I'm actually getting shit done when I eventually get around to it.  Household chores are rarely as bad as I imagine they'll be.  Helps that I distract myself with Netflix on the iPad while I'm doing it.  I have to trick myself into chores.  Same goes for cleaning the house.  Anything's possible when Spotify's blaring and you're dancing around the house in your pants.


Running

As is the case with anyone that claims running as a hobby, it's hard to love it all the time.  Despite what those smiley ladies on the cover of Runners World imply.  Sometimes it sucks balls and makes you feel like you're going to poop out your lungs.  These pant soiling runs are fewer and further between than the good, average and elated ones, but like a negative comment in a sea of compliments, it's always the negative memories that rise to the top -  especially when you're tired from work and it looks a bit icky outside.  It's easy to forget that the hardest bit is getting yourself in your stretchy things and out the door.  Again, the reality is nearly always better than the expectation.  That horrid drizzle turns into skin cooling "ahhhh"-ness (another scientific term, I swear), and your fatigue buggers off because you're body's way too busy trying not to fall over itself to remember how tired it is.  Before long, you're bouncing back in the door and chewing everyone's ear off about how great running is, having completely forgotten that just an hour ago you were hunched in the doorway with one trainer on, crying a bit about having to go out in the cold.

Remembering to Eat Like a Human

...as opposed to a being that runs solely on Maoams and trifle. Sweets, cakes and anything else promising me an immediate sugar fix make me feel like crap.  If I'm not doing that thing where one leg bounces of its own accord in a bid to rid me of the excess energy I'm consuming faster than I can use, I'm sitting bolt upright and asleep, head thrown back and drooling because I've fallen into a mini, snack induced coma.  Brain knows that sweeties are the Devil incarnate and I can get naff all done on them, but it takes a long time for my body to catch on. It thinks it needs them. As soon as I chill out and start doing that moderation thing I hear so much about, I become able to stay awake for an entire day without unplanned naps, and people don't have to gauge whether I'm in my manically happy I'm-going-to-talk-so-fast-at-you-your-ears-will-bleed phase, or whether I'm going to start chewing on their fingers until they give me Haribo.  Better for everyone when I'm sweetie-sober.

...And there we have it! Seriously, though.  Read Confessions.  It's much better!  

Speaking of putting things off, I finally bit the bullet and signed up to my first full marathon.  I chose the Liverpool Rock 'n' Roll marathon.  Mostly because there's a band at every mile and I'll need as much distraction from the "what the fuck am I doing?!" thoughts I'm going to be having. I'm scared, confused about how I'm going to fit in CrossFit into a useable training plan that won't kill me, bewildered... but most of all, I'm excited!  I cannot picture for the life of me how I'm going to manage to keep moving for upwards of five hours, but I'll certainly give it a good crack!  No motion, no medal!  I'll keep you updated as my training progresses.  Wish me luck!

 

Bwaaaah!! =oO

* That reminds me of another one my sister and I share.  During conversations with people, we've both admitted to occasionally playing out completely inappropriate behaviour in our minds that we wouldn't dare do in reality.  These mental excursions usually worsen if the conversation is a serious one.  I find myself wondering things like

"If I just licked her on the nose and carried on as normal, would she react, or would she be too polite/freaked out to do anything?"

and

"What if I slapped him really hard for no reason?  How angry would he be with me?"  

These are conversations with anyone.  People I love. People I barely know.  I reckon (hope) most people have these funny little fantasies along the lines of what is the worst thing I could possibly do in this situation?  If no, at least it seems to run in my family, so I'm not totally alone!