I am about a pound overweight, sitting in a guest bedroom in San Diego. On average though, I lose two pounds in my sleep; so I’ll be okay. I am full of energy, because I have hardly done any exercise at all in the past three days. My last tough workout was Sunday afternoon.
I’m really just ready for this whole fucking thing to be over with, finally. My training camp started 5 weeks ago, or thereabouts. In fact, it’s been longer then that still. My training camp for the Pro-Trials was a month long. I took two weeks off after the tournament, then immediately jumped into camp for the Pan Ams.
Training two and three times a day is a grind. Doing supplemental exercises after class are a grind. Controlling my diet – eating chicken breast with roasted broccoli or steak and salad or eggs and bacon for breakfast every single day – is a grind. Looking at my poor pinky, mangled and beaten, middle knuckle now preposterously large, then taping it up so I can train and mangle it up a little bit more is a grind. I guess I’m just tired. I’m just being cranky. I just want to tape my pinkie closed so it doesn’t lose mobility, the way my ring finger did on my right hand. And I just want to eat some goddamn pizza without worrying myself bald(er) about whether that is going to drastically affect my weight.
That’s enough of this ‘putting my complaints to paper’ business. Besides, I compete at 5:25PM on Thursday in Irvine. Pretty soon, I won’t have any more complaints. And it’s all really over already. All the investments in time and energy have been made. The dice are already crafted. Tomorrow, we all make our bets and then collectively throw them.
The time difference is annoying, especially with all this extra energy. I usually go to bed dead-tired. Tomorrow, I’m probably going to be up before the sun. If so, I’m going to walk two blocks to the beach and watch the sunrise – but I’m going to weigh myself before. This ends Thursday.
Thanks for reading.