I'm sitting on the edge of my mattress, feet pointed into the narrow space between my bed and the wall, because it's freezing in the apartment otherwise and practically standing on the heater is the only way I can stay warm (the heat will spread to the rest of my room shortly). I've been up for hours, but typing swathed in blankets for most of them - now I'm restless enough to want to move my feet, roam around, stretch my limbs.
The trick to doing the right thing is to make the right thing easy. The catch is that doing so is awfully hard.
I feel like running. I feel like flying. I'm trying to make sure that it's not shortsighted euphoria - but I'm geared up for the marathon I know I'm likely to have to run (this afternoon: a warm-up sprint). I'm thankful to the folks who've got me unstuck from my timesucking, unproductive spiral of self-pity, and hope I can return the favor someday.
And I finally read Greg's recommendation of The Starfish and the Spider (thanks, Michael!) last night - and went "Oh. Oh wow. So that is what I'm growing into." And I am proud of what I'm growing up to become. Never satisfied with what I am. But in short, rare spurts, a bit... content - satisfied with that dissatisfaction.
My life has been a series of "ugly duckling sees swans for the first time" moments. I'm starting to reach the points in some of those stories where I look in the water's reflection and see that maybe, just maybe, I'm that kind of bird as well.
Plenty to do before Christmas comes tomorrow.