Stress Mess

So, the last few weeks have been stressful: Kid’s school-problems, husband’s work-problems, deadlines, laundry, groceries, bills and of course, Whitney Houston.

So, the last few weeks have been stressful: Kid’s school-problems, husband’s work-problems, deadlines, laundry, groceries, bills and of course, Whitney Houston.

The old me used to deal with stress kinda like this guy does only with a side of chips and guacamole.  And, I’ll admit, it’s been tempting to fall back into my old habits. Nevertheless, the new, fitter me, has been trying to find healthier ways.

This lady seems to know a lot about finding your “zen”, but I just can’t get my hands on any appropriate purple flowers… or pills. I’ve also thought about yoga, but, well, I hate it.   So, I’ve found a different stress-relieving go-to that’s been sitting under my nose the whole time – vodka. Just kidding (I keep that in my bathroom). The truth is, I’ve been running — a lot.

I’ll admit, when compiling my mental “to do” list each morning, running almost always falls somewhere near the bottom — how can I possibly squeeze in a run when there are so many unfolded clothes in our laundry room my daughters are now referring to it as “their closet”?

Nevertheless,  I’ve been forcing myself out the door and the results are amazing. After a run, my shoulders sit where they are supposed to, my heart isn’t as heavy and my constant-inner-somewhat-panicked dialogue makes the switch from a loud screech to a quieter hum.

Sure most fitness-enthusiast-types have known the benefit of exercise on stress for years. You know, endorphins and all that.  But for me, when I am pounding (and I mean pounding) the pavement around my neighbourhood, I don’t just work out my body, but also my life. I think of everything – What exactly am I going to say to the principal? How are we going to get the kids to two birthday parties, Sport-Ball and ballet in a three-hour window?  What are we going to have for dinner tonight?  And nothing — breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out.   I sing – “‘Cause baby you’re a firework, Come on show ‘em what you’re worth”.   I cry.  And when I’m running with my friends, I laugh. I mean pee-your-pants kind of laugh.

And so, the next time the upstairs toilet is leaking onto the kitchen stove (yes that really happened) or my daughter’s latest tantrum gets posted on YouTube (still waiting), I’m going to forget the chips, find my sneakers and make a break for it.

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