“I just want to tell everyone to relax. Hey everybody, just chill!”
Last Friday I was interviewing Shawn Mynar for a post on PrimalPalate.com. Although the conversation was intended to focus on health and nutrition, we spent the hour discussing stress, mindset, and our personal battles with each. Every word coming out of that girl’s mouth hit home for me. I mean, every. single. thing.
“Kara, I’m a nutritionist who spends ten percent of my time with clients talking about food. We talk about work, toxic relationships, and whether they’re stuck in traffic for ninety minutes a day. If you’re doing everything right, and you’re still not seeing results, then you need to keep digging.”
Yep, that’s me. Queen of the high-strung, overthinking space-cadet, at your service.
I get stressed without even realizing I’m stressed. [Recently, my parents told me I dropped off the face of the planet, which I wrote about here. Go read that, then come back.]
Oh look, you came back.
“For me, eating was just one more thing to do perfectly. Yes I got healthy, but the stress it caused undid me.”
Yep, homegirl had me there too. I’m an extremist in everything I do. While I may start something with good intentions, at one point I will take it to a whole new level. I promise you that. Hell, at one point I told myself I was going to write in this blog every single day. [That lasted for…twelve days. It was a good run.]
If I were to guess, I’d say someone tells me to chill out/don’t stress/calm down about…three times a week. So apparently, every-other day I need to take the anxiety train down a couple cylinders.
Listen, I am 100 percent aware I’m hard on myself. Most of my Type-A friends are too (I’ll resist the urge to type names here, but you know who you are). We understand how we’re wired. That doesn’t mean things are going to change.
But Shawn’s words stuck with me through the weekend. I really needed to chill the F out.
So, I did what any twenty-something with an ounce of sense would do. I got wasted. I drank for six hours on a Tuesday night with four of my best friends.
Tuesdays are my “active recovery days.” Recovery meaning, I still do a pool workout and go to an hour yoga class. Yesterday afternoon, with thirty-minutes left in my workday, I may-or-may-not have been researching new brunch spots. And I may-or-may-not have found a bar that does brunch on Tuesday nights. And this brunch may-or-may-not include bottomless mimosas and bloody mary’s.
I hate skipping a workout, but I did run two miles over lunch, and I had squeezed in an ab circuit before work that morning.
I thought of Shawn’s words one more time. “I am literally babying myself. If I don’t feel like working out, I just go for a walk.”
Fuck it, I thought. I LOVE brunch! And a brunch in the middle of the workweek? Mass text sent, done and done.
I took Shawn’s advice, and went for a walk. To the bar, that is (I’m sure that’s how she intended it). I walked a mile-and-a-half to drink mimosas on a roof deck in my favorite neighborhood with some of my favorite people in the world. I drank unlimited for fifteen dollars for four hours, before moving the party to my favorite bar in DC.
I woke up this morning still drunk. I wore yoga pants and Nike’s to the office. No, I did not call in sick. I didn’t put on makeup because there were still remnants of eyeliner from last night. I didn’t make my bed before leaving for the day (I know what you’re thinking—Kara, you rebel you.) On my walk to work, I promised to sacrifice my first born if I could just get my hands on a breakfast burrito.
And considering my hangover won’t hit til…noon, I feel a hella lot better than I did yesterday.
P.S. I totally had a breakfast burrito delivered to the office.