That’s the sound of a beautiful heavy sigh of relief and relaxing into a very comfortable place.  Blanket in hand, I’m settling in for a big dose of happy contentment.

Today was Holy Arm Day, and someone should be in Confession for missing 2 weeks in a row.  I suggest an appropriate penance of a dozen sets on the Preacher Curl machine.  Afraid to exhale, I’m so very happy to have my Coach back in my daily church of choice.  Divine inspiration.

The body, mind, spirit connection has never been more evident to me than at this time in my life.  I’ve written ad nauseum about the metamorphosis I’m undergoing with the running, but I haven’t talked a lot about other physical changes that happen to women around my age.

It’s happening to me without my consent, and I guess without my full knowledge, because I neither know nor understand everything that’s going on inside of my body – I simply see the symptoms.  Sometimes.

The changes affect everything – everything.  My brain has been trying to make sense of it and I suspect I’ll be happier if I just let it be.  My reproductive body served me well, producing 3 wonderful children, but now it’s time to reclaim it for myself. 

And it’s not dead, this body of mine.  It’s still embracing physical challenges, and it still pulsates with throbbing sexual desires that would make a teenager blush.  What the fuck am I supposed to do with all of this?

I can think of a few things… oh, wait… now I’m blushing.  And distracted.  Very distracted.


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