Julie Says... Can I get a Midol?

As part of this couch to half-marathon journey, I expected there would patches of time where motivation waned. I am, after all, only human -- despite my best attempts to be otherwise ;) What I did not expect is to be at war with myself. I WANT to run every day. I see my Vibram FiveFingers and get teary eyed. I see my lovely foot muscles atrophying. My joints are aching again. My back hurts. I'm depressed, and I'm mad at myself. Nothing has changed since the last time I wrote. I'm still held back by fear, time, and money. Mostly fear. And a touch of agoraphobia. Perhaps it isn't agoraphobia so much as severe anti-social tendencies. I came close to breathing fire on a check-out lady at Sam's Club today. Which bothers me more than I think I can explain.

I found my warm-fuzzy-world-loving-all-forgiving-peaceful self after many, many years... or so I thought. Can I blame it on work? In the first two months on my new job, I have dealt with disaster involving police, fire, water, vomit, tears, and urine, in some combination, almost every day. Do you remember me complaining about the fact I couldn't get a job? Yeah. Beggars can't be choosers. I am grateful to have a job... but it isn't easy to be grateful. The best I can come up with most days is, "At least I'm not being shot at... yet." I don't say thanks every day. I don't find joy every day. I have a hard time forgiving minor transgressions (like a check-out lady who removes me from line, sending me aaall the way to the check-out lane on the opposite end, only to be told that she has closed). I've gone from being grateful that I am single and independent, to regretful that I don't have a man in my life to provide a second income. And perhaps a little sad that money would be the greatest/only motivation for entering into a relationship now.

One step closer every day to being the crazy cat lady librarian... oh, I forgot. I left my cats for this job, too.

Also, I'm still having trouble figuring out how to keep from starving on a low-fat diet. I keep falling off the wagon, eating pizza, lasagna, cake... only to end up writhing in pain. Then I eat my carrots, broccoli, fish, beans, carrots, broccoli, fish, beans, carrots, broccoli, fish, and beans... until I nearly explode from frustration and cram a pizza down my pie-hole to appease the hunger monster... only to end up writhing in pain... again... from being weak and stupid. I could blame the fat-givers at work. The ones who bring/buy the pizza, lasagna, cake, brownies, doughnuts, etc., but no one is forcing me to eat the bad stuff. Weirdly, the threat of death isn't a great enough deterrent. Who knew?

Did I mention I'm cranky?

To end this misery loves company pity post/confession... I will admit I tried to talk Beverly out of doing this. Forget it. Next year. Next decade. Next century. Never.