I’ve been working on a new definition of being “good”, which involves things like working out 3-4 times a week andeating more fruits and veggies and less refined sugar because I feel better and am happier and less cranky and tired when I do these things. Under this new definition, “being good” also means taking time to do things that I want to do for myself, like write blog entries and short stories and novels; like pulling out my guitar and singing; like actually using the wonderful watercolor set I received from my partner for giftmas.

Good things. Ya know?

And as of last week, I was doing pretty good according to that definition. I got up and used the elliptical trainer a couple of mornings and was going to yoga for the first time in ages and was plotting out the next few chapters in my head…

Then I had a long Friday at work (contrary to popular belief and actual practice in many places, Friday is usually my worst workday because of developing crises in weekend programming. But I digress). I went into the first serious yoga class I’d been to in 6 weeks, having missed two for India, then had a heavy relaxation/light workout session, then a week off, then a migraine two weeks ago. I was tight. And tired. And stressed. And tight.  My body was telling me something was wrong through the whole class – weird muscle aches and cramps forced me to modify certain things. Then the instructor had us do a warrior 2 in a way I wasn’t used to and my center of gravity was off and I was frustrated and tired and pushing harder than I should have because I knew I could do the post better than I was. Then I heard the ripping sound. It was not, in fact, my awesome yoga pants. But rather was the sound of something awry in my inner thigh.

Sigh.

I’m still sore and I want comfort food and I’m grumpy and I’m reading things into innocent comments from my partner. I want to be active, dammit, and I can’t right now. We were supposed to go hiking this weekend – we have reservations at a lodge and everything. And now I don’t know if I can. I hate this. The smallest setback can completely torpedo my ability to easily like myself and to be proud of my accomplishments. And that is not good.

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