Up

I set my alarm for 7:50. It's 6:25. I'm awake. I've eaten breakfast and am patiently waiting for the sun to rise so I can get outside and do my run. It's already 52 degrees outside. If I run at 6:45, I'll be done by 9:45 and can get a nap in before my proposed afternoon of [a week early] St. Patrick's Day debauchery.

Things are pretty good lately. Work is good. Stuff with that boy is good. What's not good is the amount of food that I've been shoveling into my mouth under the guise that I'm hungry because I'm running a lot. Am I really that much hungrier or do I just let myself think I am? I was watching "Intervention" last night (a great show if you've never seen it. Friday night at 10 on A&E) and one of the addicts was a bulemic. Now, I am not and never have been bulemic. But something that she said did strike a chord with me. She said to her parents, "Food might be something that I'll never be okay with." I feel like that sometimes. Granted, I'm come a long way in overcoming some somewhat disordered behaviors, but thinking about food and and the guilt that goes along with eating something "bad" and wishing I didn't eat as much, those thoughts are always in the back of my mind.

Oops, I didn't even intend to write about that.