It took every ounce of willpower in me, but I worked out this morning. I wanted more than anything to just stumble over to my French press and make my morning cup of coffee, but I’ve been crabby lately, and between the rum balls, pralines, snowball cookies, and hot toddies (not to mention the cut-out cookies I’m making today), I knew exercise was the only thing that would help my mood without my crashing an hour later.
And now, my coffee brews as a reward.
I had great momentum going this summer and fall, both with exercise and with writing. I was the fittest I’ve probably ever been, and I was writing more public content than I’ve ever written. I even had a piece accepted into the upcoming issue of the Southern Women’s Review. My first publication. I got the acceptance email the day before we packed the U-Haul, and I haven’t even really processed the awesomeness of it.
Because our lives became consumed by the move. By cleaning up our former residence. Unpacking boxes. Disposing of waste. Removing 1974 curtains, replacing them, struggling to accept the 1974 countertops. Examining paint chips, trying to figure out where to keep the China.
Meanwhile, I lost momentum, for both exercise and writing. There are cookies to be made and eaten. Christmas presents to wrap. Carpets to be vacuumed. And moods to plummet.
So I’m taking baby steps. Whereas I used to power through hour-long Jillian Michaels workouts, I’m limping through 20 minutes. And while I felt like I was cranking out some good stuff when I was writing regularly, now I feel like I’m just writing to overcome the inertia of not-writing. To get the words flowing again, if not the ideas. Those will come with momentum. Won’t they?