I had two doctor's appointments scheduled today. Neither one of them was earth-shatteringly important--one was to tweak the obturator, the other a recheck for a minor, now healed, problem. I cancelled 'em both, as I didn't feel like driving halfway into Bigton and then hours and hours to Yeehawville. I'll reschedule 'em for later, if I don't rebend the obturator wires myself. I didn't sleep well last night and didn't feel much like exerting myself on the highway.
Attila the Trainer came over, and I had a nice little baby workout for an hour. Eight-pound bicep curls? Sure thing. Twenty curls on a balance ball that left me sweating and panting? You bet. Five minutes of walking--dear Heaven--at 3.5 miles per hour and I'm beat? Bring it on.
Then I had lunch and a glass of wine and a long, luxurious nap. I woke up a couple of times and drowsily petted kitty-bellies, then went outside and rubbed Max-belly, then wandered around the back yard taking measurements of various things. Then I changed my sheets.
You will note that absolutely nothing of any apparent importance happened today. I did not break any new endurance records, clean ANY of the things, stay up longer than usual, or eat any new foods. In fact, I laid around most of the day like a lump and spoiled both myself and my animals. I got out in the sun for a while and made some tasty spinach dip. That was really it.
Which, as I said above, is a milestone. Because--and this is something that I just figured out--after a Nasty Diagnosis and a Near Miss Of Something Much Worse, you tend to overschedule things. You want to make every second of every day count, and do something measurably different or better than the day before, every day. It becomes an obsession and then a habit.
Life sucks if you do that, unless you're one of those motivational authors who makes his living publishing books with lots of exclamation points in them. Sometimes kitty bellies are as important as dragging ass up a highway, or scrubbing the floor, or finishing the Christmas shopping.