And now, back to your regularly scheduled suckage

By the time I was conscious enough to be temporally aware, I already knew I wouldn’t be running this morning. Late nights and early mornings don’t mix, and nor does the intention to run 20 kilometres mix with the Saturday morning farmer’s market out at the showground or a particularly early driving lesson. Perhaps if I were disciplined enough to get my lazy ass out of bed at 5am (at the very latest, mind you) I wouldn’t feel like such a lump. Four hours of sleep, though? Forget about it.

As it turned out, I woke up too late even to hit the markets before I went out for my driving lesson.
So in a nutshell, Saturdays and running aren’t working out for me. At all. The problem with that is that getting myself to run on Sundays has always been even harder than my current Saturday issue. I stay up late on Saturdays, always. I drink, most of the time. Sleeping in on a Sunday is a basic human right, goddamnit.

I don’t know what to do about that. I can always manage a run or three during the week at lunchtimes, rain or shine. My long slow run which should be the highlight of my week is the major issue here. Hmm. This’ll take some thought.

I decided to go for a walk to wake myself up, as I’m such a perfect specimen of physical fitness I was taking a random nap on the couch at about 1pm this afternoon. I felt like heading up the mountain, but I had no cake to eat on the mountain. This is a great example of how lazy I am right now. I won’t hike because I don’t have cake. I don’t see how those things should really be related, but that’s the way I felt at the time. There is no bakery on the mountain, so I decided to go to the shops and buy cake and maybe then go up the mountain if I had time.

About halfway toward the mountain (which I lost track of at one point as they’d put all these houses in the way and there were no paths I could find), I stopped to wonder exactly why I was doing this. Did I feel like I needed to hike in order to deserve cake? I certainly wasn’t enjoying myself. As the sun tried it’s best to burn right through my layer of sunscreen and my poorly-chosen jeans chafed against my sweat-soaked asscrack, I felt very fat and bloaty and old. To avoid feeling guilty about sitting on the couch all day, I’d told myself “I need to walk”, but does an hour and a half up a mountain constitute appropriate penance? Especially as there was cake involved?

I did enjoy myself eventually, sitting in the shade and staring down at the airport as I demolished two almond fingers and an apple.

I like almond fingers.

I feel doubly guilty now, though. I gave some very incoherent directions to a bunch of hikers. So they’re probably still up there now, completely lost.