If there is one night of the week where you hop in the bath at 6.53pm, put on your PJs and make yourself a peppermint tea, here's a word of advice; let it not be Saturday night.
Let it not be a Saturday night where the world of Snapchat and all your mates having just the best time is one tempting tap away, where your sister has been prepping for her eve out since this time yesterday and where even the dog has done a runner in a bid for a night on the town.
Yep, I'm resting up. I'm putting old Randal Pinto's* advice into action and ending the week with "more petrol in the tank, than out".
HOWEVER. This isn't all doom and gloom.
This blog has been quiet for a week or so (or perhaps a couple more) and that's because I've been out.
Out, out even.
For the first time in a year I've felt fit and healthy enough to say 'yes' to suppers in, dinners out, to best pal sleepovers, to more volunteering, to the actual circus and even dance floors. Yes, the sweet, sweet dance floor, how i've missed you. And how, I'm quite sure, you've missed me.
That makes me sound like the ultimate wild child. I've also been doing a fair amount of 'recuperation' (two days ago I was bought dinner in bed. On the up side, I did feel very glamorous). But without doubt, these past few weeks have been my most social in a long, long time. And it feels GREAT.
Freedom to hop on a train or in the car is bloody fantastic. Let me tell you, when the lovely tea man at Hertford North station said "you again!", I nearly snogged him.
One - cringe inducing, but genuinely true - passing thought a couple of weeks back whilst eating a fish finger sandwich (it's not all quinoa and spinach) in busy Maltby Street Market, was "I feel so alive". I know, the worst. But it just popped into my head, and it did feel true.
I wonder if I'll get to a point where I stop realising how brilliant these moments are. I hope not.
So this day of chilling and night of rest is really quite overdue. I know I need it and I know next week will be a write off without it (let's not be too miserable, but essentially I'd experience nausea, heavy limbed lethargy and more time infront of Jeremy Kyle than is healthy). It's more than rubbish to miss a friend's birthday - it really, really is - but if there is one thing I'm getting better at, it's knowing when to allow myself a breather.
Plus, this eve of rest is also for a good cause.
Tomorrow I'm taking on one of my most physically demanding days yet, with a 10 mile cross country ride with tens of other horse and jockeys to navigate. The date has been in the diary for months and has been an aim since last year, but I've daren't really consider it, just incase health went tits up. I know that heading back to the lorry tomorrow afternoon, this Saturday night FOMO - fear of missing out, that is - will be so completely worth it. Touch wood. (Ever so slightly superstitious.)
When you've had that reminder of all the fun that there is to be had out there, it's hard to rein it in. But the fact that 'Saturday night' actually means something to me again? That's a sure sign of recovery.
PS BEST NEWS EVER. Sister's plans have changed. Britain's Got Talent for two it is
* excellent acupuncturist. And actually not old.
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