I think I’m handling this change well.

I was supposed to go out with baby brother, but he hurt his leg last night.
We’re staying instead of heading to the gym.

At one point, I would have been internally furious at this.
I would have been upset, sad, and scheming on how to make up on lost exercise hours.  Doubly so since I’m at home and mom is cooking fried chicken — which smells delicious by the way.

Now, not so much.

I’m doing pretty good.
I might go out later for a light grocery trip and replenish Wizards energy.   I have zero plans to sneak out to the gym later or deny myself fried chicken.    I’m kind of looking forward to it.

This is a complete turnaround from what I was just a year ago.

I treated going to the gym like a job and missed hours could never be made up.
I felt that my ‘pay’ was…  Actually, I’m not sure what I got from it.    Sure, it feels good to work out, but to become upset because a session was cut short or I couldn’t go is above and beyond.

That’s almost fanatical.

But, the gym has become a haven.
I can go there and do my thing with or without people.   I’m generally left alone.   It helps me cope with the constant creeping anorexic thoughts.   When I’m finished, I usually feel so exhausted that I feel settled for the rest of the day.     I feel like I accomplished something.

Stupid, yeah, but everyone wants to feel like they’re doing something with their lives.  Even if it is just to avoid self-doubt and disgust.

Well, I guess I can say the corona helped me get over that.   When the gyms closed down, I noticed that I didn’t gain a couple of hundred pounds.     That I could keep going and do other stuff.   I had time to take care of other things I find important and sleep in late —  which I will probably do after dinner.

I’ve gotten to be really good about taking naps.

Maybe playing games and obsessing about the gym has been a big block of why I don’t write as much as I like.

By not working a full-time job, I have this grand opportunity to make writing my job.     I’d like to do that providing I can stay awake long enough.

Can I get into a mind frame where I don’t expect a lot from my self and impose the (sometimes unrealistic) expectations of others upon myself.

I don’t know.
When I was young, I could only write my stories when everything was done.    Homework.  Laundry.  Cleaning.  I mean everything.  Only then would I allow me to have the peace to think of wonderous and generally scary things.    Well, I thought they were scary or at least thought-provoking.    Just a little maybe.

Anyway, winner, winner, chicken dinner.
I’m going to have lunch.