Little raindrops streak across my office windows. I look up from my computer to watch the trees outside sway lazily from side to side. The day’s earlier promise of sunshine has been wash away by a thick layer of ominous clouds. I place my hands around my steaming cup of tea, as I lean back in my chair and sigh.
The cooler weather begs me to curl up on my couch with a throw across my legs and glass of wine in hand. There is literally nothing more enjoyable than relaxing to the sound of raindrops on my tin roof. It’s calling to me right now; trying to seduce me away from my planned evening workout. Wine or workout… workout or wine…decisions, decisions — who am I kidding, I know damn well it will be workout before wine. She’ll have it no other way. Who is she you ask?
“She” is my conscience. My relentless, nagging, down right mean, conscience. “No rest until your work is done,” she snarls. Why oh why does she have to be such a bitch. I love myself, don’t get me wrong, but my conscience can be a real pain in my ass. She’s always looking over my shoulder; she reminds me daily to push, push, push. Yesterday, I skipped my evening workout (still did my morning run though); boy was she pissed. That’s likely the reason she’s being such a hard ass about me wanting to skip tonight. No way in hell would she be ok with two missed workouts in a row.
I wish I was better at standing up to her, but I crumble like a dried up biscut when she raises her eyebrow in disappointment. Can’t get nothing past her; that’s for sure. Still, I feel like being rebellious, so like it or not, I’m shortening my workout to 30 minutes tonight. TAKE that! I’m gonna show her…
My body is telling me it needs a break, and I want to give it one. Unfortunately, the little voice in my head will not allow it. Maybe one day I will have the ability to let go from time to time. Until then: 30 minutes on the bike = 2 chilled glasses of Ms. Kim Crawford.