God forbid I enjoy my life.
Sometimes I feel like I’m being punished for something I may have done in a past life, because what is this body?
We begin with waking up in the morning, either startled awake or a painfully slow rise. No matter the hours I slept, it’s never the right amount. It shows on my face, eyes dark and puffy. Caffeine won’t do the trick either, that just hurts it more, from trembles to racing thoughts.
Just say you hate me, it’s faster.
But I’ve been working hard, so let me take a day to go out with my friends to eat something tasty. I deserve a little treat once in a while, right?
Of course, it reacts as if I consumed poison. Thank you, body, for protecting me from…uhhh… seed oils?
And also fried foods.
And anything with an ounce of spice to it.
And fruit.
It’s my job, then, to figure out what’s wrong and how I can fix it. But nooooooo. Nothing out of the ordinary that I may be allergic to. There’s nothing that should be causing these reactions. You know, like a liar. While I dump money into getting my blood drawn for tests, it continues to act like everything’s fine.
Until it isn’t.
It’s okay, you can laugh. It’s funny.
Fine, I’ll let it slide, everyone has its quirks. At least let me sleep, rest and relax to prepare for the next day.
NOPE.
It keeps me awake, aching as if I spent hours working on a farm. When in reality I was just sitting on a bench in studio. Or locking my knees when standing. Or, in the case of TRYING to take care of myself by exercising, it continues to act like I fought in a war.
Thanks for that.
But I can’t fault it for everything.
It tells me when I’m pushing myself too hard. It lets me know when I need to eat. It carries me from place to place, allows me to spend time with the people I care about. It lets me live my life, but knows my limits. It looks after me. It cares about me more than I do at times.
I love my body.