I am reminded of Margery Williams’s Velveteen Rabbit. That’s the one with the stuffed bunny who dreams of being real but is tossed into the fire when his owner gets super sick, right? They burn all the kids’ stuff because he has the black death or something? Scarlet Fever maybe?
I don’t know what I have but I’m definitely sick. After a disastrous nutritional detour into Jabba the Hutt-ian levels of stuffing my face, I had grand visions of running 20 miles today to try and reset and get back into the proverbial game. I even set my alarm … and then reset it in the hopes of ensuring I’d get out on the road. Those alarms came and went as I wallowed in a state of illness that I’m ashamed to say makes me sound like the biggest baby imaginable. But I feel terrible. And all I can think is that everything I’ve touched is covered in the germs that could if not destroyed by flames overrun the world and lead to a post-apocalyptic nightmare. But that would also at this moment require me being disinfected en masse as I seem to be a walking petrie dish of death warmed over.
Thus, no recovery running so far. No running to downplay the junk food and empty calories of travel and cheating consumption of nothingness. I’d be okay with my repeated handfuls of junk if I felt any sort of joy from the food; instead it’s just binging for no sake. That emptiness of post-binging is worse than the binge itself. Ugh. I’m a mess.
Recover Kevin Recover. That’s the temporary name of the game.