Once upon a time I felt success. It came from getting on my treadmill every day for a week, and soon every day for two. Then a month. Then 74 days came and went and I was still getting on the treadmill in my bedroom, pumping up the speed and beating out however much mileage I could cover for however long I could reasonably stay on without becoming bored, irritated or angry. I was so glad of myself then. I'd reached a few pre-set mental milestones and was feeling the win....then I quit.
It was a flu-like bugger that rendered me helpless. I was bedridden one, then a few days. And on those days I managed to allow my mind to believe I'd failed. I didn't make 75 days. Part of me wished to get back on the treadmill and resume count, and I couldn't. I'd have to start the count over.
So I didn't go on the treadmill again. Not for ages. As in 10 months.
Call it a New Year scramble or what-have-you...I am walking again. I started this Monday and am on day four. Rather than spew all my hopes at this blog post (and set expectations!) I am only letting you know that I'm four days in...this minute.
