Callouses are BACK on my hands, and I can wallow in the understanding, sitting here recovering, just how much I FUCKING LOVE WEIGHTLIFTING. Cycling can’t get close to the endorphin high, plus I can show off just how much work really was done during Lockdown (a lot, lets be honest). If there were money available, I’d find a way to build a weights bench into the house. Lifting is GREAT.
It isn’t about looking ‘a certain way’ either, this is just the means by which the whole of my body turns up and works together. It is a miracle cure for so much else too, not just because of the chemical processes at play. Also, I have REALLY missed my trainer, and realise with a somewhat heavy heart the only reason I was doing classes was for the interaction.
Exercise classes are now no longer what I want to be doing.
Yesterday gave me one important fictional realization too: this vanity project is gonna need a quite serious unpick and rewrite. That would previously have sent me scurrying away in fear but not now: it’s almost a requirement to do so, because the story’s evolving too. I have grown up stuff to do today but will be scheduling more time to attack this as the month goes on.
What was most stressful was the fact I could not easily write down what was needed when the moment came. The brain/page interface for fiction has altered, no doubt as a result of the acceptance of poetry as a workable alternative. It doesn’t help that I’m pretty tired after a week of hot weather and variable sleep, but I can guarantee I’ll sleep tonight. Heavy lifting will see to that.
Starting next week, many things must be rewritten…