How to Recover from RT (or not)

So, I was just at Romantic Times with so many beautiful Leaguers and friends. It was glorious. I did some business, met some fans, drank some booze, and schmoozed, schmoozed, schmoozed.

And holy mother of god, I am paying for it.

I feel like a 100-year-old, who has been hit by a truck, and then whose broken, bleeding carcass was then set upon by young, strong boys with sticks.

I feel like poop.

Warm and wrung-out, fresh from the bunghole.

I don't think it helped that, living in Greensburg, I never leave the house or socialize. So even working my tongue in speech was tiring for me, let alone doing so while drinking! With other people! In a bar!

It also didn't help that RT was in California this year. I mean, seriously, California is fucking far away. I can get to London from here in only an hour extra!

So when I got back I was like, "I WILL RECOVER," and I set upon a post-RT recovery regimen.

Now, for those of you manning my tweets, you've probably noticed that the recovery regimen hasn't been going well. It's the end of the semester, and that's something I can't recover from till the last of the papers are graded and the last final is put to bed.

But I seriously thought I was going to die at hot yoga today. I haven't been since the Sunday before last, which is over a week. That's like dog years, in hot yoga. Every day of missing hot yoga is like a month you might as well have spent injecting lard into your veins while refusing to move a single muscle.

So after a week and a half, I was back at square one. And by square one, I mean hot mess of pain and horror.

I nearly passed out twice (for realz) and did think I was going to puke once. At one point I'm lying there, panting, in child's pose and I'm thinking, "Why the fuck am I here?" Then I smelled my sweat, which still faintly reeked of Maker's Mark and fried bar food, and I was like, "Oh, right. That's why I'm here. I have sinned."

And of course, as soon as I left the yoga studio, I felt amazing. I was like, "Yeah! I'm strong! I'm powerful! I only almost barfed once, go ME!" Cuz that's the evil of the yoga. It's like the hair of the dog . . . you forget the pain in a sweep of pleasure that only brings more pain.

Because, yes, I'm currently lying in my slightly damp dressing gown, not showered and mildewing in my own funk, with only my fingertips capable of movement.

At least I could write this blog post.

So what's the moral of this story? It's that I need to get a fucking life, because otherwise another big convention will kill me. I should keep conditioning the body with the running and the yoga, but I have been neglecting my liver.

For it, too, needs a workout.

And with that, I'm going to leave you with my most favoritest recent moment of Zen: The Dick Attack.

You can thank me later.


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