Fucking Mondays, man. Monday is the day I weekly set myself up for failure. I know it’s a trope—so unoriginal. But every weekend, I let loose a little. A big part of my recovery was/is allowing myself the weekends—every weekend, both days, off from working out (unless I’m in a really healthy place and truly want to). I’m don’t keep score during the week and “reward” myself with weekends off if I’ve been “good” enough, I just take them without negotiating.
It’s been hard. While I’ve felt a little worse about myself physically, I’ve felt a lot more grounded and present emotionally. I don’t feel angry or resentful of my kids for “not allowing” me to workout, and I don’t feel guilty for sitting down and enjoying time with my family instead of hitting the weights. So, the net total has been positive.
It makes for some tough feelings every Sunday. I panic that I’ve let myself go, that I’ve done irrevocable damage over the weekend. Every Sunday night, I convince myself that I’ll need to spend the whole week “making up” for those 48 fancy-free hours.
And there like a glittering, gleaming present is always my solution: Monday. I’ll change! I’ll be better! I’ll give it my all! And it all starts 5:30am on Monday—my atonement, my reckoning.
And without fail, I have “failed” already by Monday evening. It’s a tough cycle to get out of.