I’ve been a bit busy lately. 12+ hour workdays. Sleep quantity and quality suffering. Whatever. It happens. Occupational hazard and all that rot. Let’s just consider it a professional investment, keep our cool and move on.
Except that I can’t. Normally I could, but this week I can’t. “Why?” you ask?
Because my one good outlet, the gym, is closed this week to finish their remodeling.
And this is where we insert the sound effect of the tormented soul wailing, rending its garments and gnashing its teeth.
How? How could they do this to me? Don’t they know? Don’t they care? Why didn’t they ask first? I’m turning into a weak little blob as I type! What about MY needs!?
And don’t you go pointing out that I could easily work out at home without the aid of all those fancy machines and those well-toned trainers pointing out my every error in form. It doesn’t work that way. A workout at home isn’t really a workout. It’s this pathetic withered husk of a thing which ought to be a workout. There’s no sweat. There’s no grunting. Like Oakland, there’s no real there there. Don’t go trying to apply logic to the situation. I left that behind long ago. No, the home “workout” isn’t what’s needed here.
I’ll get through this week somehow, even without the help of the gym or anyone else. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to whine about it a bit first. And now I’ve whined. So there. Take that. No, I don’t feel any better. Bite me.
So if I’m a bit more tense than usual this week, please forgive me. I’m going through endorphin withdrawal.