I’ve moved into my new house. The weekend was an exhausting whirlwind of work: pack stuff, load stuff into car, drive to place, unload stuff from car, repeat; pick up heavy furniture, load into truck, unload at new place; repeat for what seems like fourteen years, then clean out the old place.
I’m still exhausted (it’s Tuesday).
Moving is hard work. My (neglected) muscles are sore everywhere: my shoulders and lats are sore, my quads are sore, my back is on fire. There are eleven bruises up my left shin. My problem disc is sending radiating pain down my right shoulder and shoulderblade and up my neck; the pinching sciatic nerve is sending stabbing pain down my back and into my hamstring. I am an absolute mess.
When faced with this, the last thing I want to do is go for a run. Or a swim. Or weightlifting. I just spent a weekend on my feet, lifting actual things – I don’t want to go play with dumbbells. I want to lie on the floor.
I am going to listen to my body and give it a day or two to heal. I’m too broken to take chances. The weather is beautiful and I have a neighborhood to explore that isn’t going anywhere; I’ll run when I don’t hurt. For now, I’ve moved; I’m going to stop moving for a bit.