When I used to work at an office outside of my home, I learned that my bike commute was a huge stress reliever and great way to shift gears, so to speak, for the evening. I found that I had to get more creative in winter, even if I did some occasional biking to work or on trails on the weekends. This is even more true now that I work from home and I don't have very long hallways to roam when needing a drink, the bathroom, my lunch.
I was exhausted all day but decided to go to the gym - I'll admit it - to stay on track to get my 12 visits (= 20 bucks) in since I've got some work travel on the horizon. I thought, "I'll just walk on the treadmill, it is better than sitting on a couch." Well, that sort of rationalization is a slippery slope for me (and the treadmills were full), so I pulled out my smartly packed cycling shoes and made myself do something sweaty.
I thought about the source of my exhaustion a lot today. Last night, I called the police to respond to a "domestic disturbance" across the street. Thankfully, I think it just involved a lot of yelling, cursing, frustration, threats, break-up language, thrown furniture, kicked furniture, squealing tires, more squealing tires, probably some alcohol, maybe some drugs, arguments with the police about constitutional rights, and an usual cast of characters that I've never seen before (including a child), but have possibly been living in that house. There also was an ambulance just in case, but everyone seemed to be physically fine. Eventually, the police were allowed into the house to try to sort out exactly what happened, and that's when I tried to go back to sleep in earnest, but had a hard time getting my brain to stop racing.
We have a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood, but the house where this happened is a house of sadness. At least in my mind. Before we moved in - over 20 years ago - a man and his wife had two children with a baby on the way. The wife died shortly after giving birth to the third child or when it was very young. The baby went to live with other family members and the man, a very nice and neighborly alcoholic, "raised" the other two, although only the son stuck it out until reaching age 18 - the daughter went to live elsewhere when she was a tween. Fast forward 20+ years, the alcoholic man is dead from a nasty case of smoking-related cancer (when is cancer not nasty, Maggie?) and the son lives in the house. With his girlfriend. And possibly his sister. And probably another guy. And maybe the girlfriend's son. And was the guy with the child just visiting, or does he live there, too?
Although this was the first year that the yard had flowers and there was a Christmas wreath on the door, apparently that isn't enough to correct a whole bunch of messed up childhood things or mean that the people inside have figured out how to deal with anger, frustrations, or stress.
I am lucky, very lucky.
