I’m in a funk. I hate the funk. But what I’ve learned from being in previous funks is that 1) it won’t last forever, and 2) good things usually follow.
I’m still shoveling food in my face at a pretty good pace, but I’m eating healthfully in between the crap. And tomorrow I run 19 miles, so that’ll burn off some of it. I’ve learned to be a little gentle with myself and just let the funk run its course.
I realized for sure that it was more than just a bad week when I found myself running 6 ½ miles on my treadmill at midnight the other day clad in only a sports bra and a pair of running shoes (which I put on only after the bottoms of my feet began to burn after the first two miles.)
Yeah – I’ve got some issues. Don’t we all?
So the very next day I scheduled a 90-minute deep tissue massage with Shirley to loosen things up and get those toxins moving out.
If Shirley had been a man, I would have felt a little violated. She began by asking me if there were any places on my body I didn’t want her to touch. I said no. She brushed against my breasts one too many times and seemed a little too excited to work on my glutes. She warned me that her method was painful, but effective, and she dug into my backside like she was hunting for a surprise.
With me on my back, she moved to the top of the table behind my head, reached her hands beneath my shoulders and slid them down my back. She breathed a quiet, “wow,” and then – “shit.” I silently hoped that meant she discovered some pretty awful knots.
I was able to relax in between the painful wincing, and I left feeling loose and better than when I had walked in, so I consider it a success.
This morning at the salon, I gossiped with my gorgeous metro hairdresser about biceps and sex, tried a new hairstyle, ran some errands, cleaned house, and called my bff to talk about boys.
And then I ate some more.
I hope this song ends soon. I don’t really like the funky-funk.