After I began doing morning pages in Tahoe, I soon learned how quickly the exercise scarfed down journals. Luckily, I had a few lying in wait, mostly gifts like Jessica’s. The Carpe Diem journal is now the latest one to be set aside, bearing that slightly open swell of a journal well-used.
Despite moving on to a gorgeous Shakespearean journal gifted to me by my M&B board mom, CJ Hauser, the Carpe Diem journal will always hold a special place going forward. The first entry in it was February 4th of this year…five days after I arrived in LA. When I flip through the book, the black ink flashes from page to page and seems far too much for the two and a half months it has been. But then the experience of that short time has also seemed inordinately stuffed, to the point that even my mother commented at Easter that it felt like six months had passed since I left the east coast. Unintentionally, at least by my recollection, I began writing this new chapter down in a book commanding me to stride forth confidently. This feels warm and right.
It was a fitting day to end on, too, a Saturday after a week of significant change. Last Sunday, I joined the nearby LA Fitness and Monday night, I signed up for personal training. During that meeting, I sat across from a tall, stacked, goofy, enthusiastic training director named David who had called me Bro Montana on our first call and who posted up for a muscle-corded high five when I got his passing Doctor Who joke. In between his descriptions of my goals, we digressed into discussions of the Justice League and swapped stories of horrifying sea creatures. In short, I was surprised to find out that the titan before me was a big ol’ nerd.
David takes it upon himself to be the first workout in the program and takes a special joy in making people hate him while keeping up the fun chatter. We did a number of exercises that pushed me significantly, most of which involved David telling me that if I didn’t relax my shoulders and neck, I was going to seriously hurt myself. At the end of the session, he told me what Erik had in Tahoe: I had a decent amount of existing muscle, but none of it worked together.
David asked me to come in the next morning to meet with one of the trainers and get initial measurements to track my progress. I had already done the math on morning gym sessions and I didn’t see a way to get up, write, work out, and get to work without getting up at four AM. Nonetheless, I decided to make this first session for the measurements, keep my morning pages, and move my actual writing session to the evening. This still meant getting up at the unthinkable hour of 5:15.
On Tuesday, something incredible happened. My brain woke me up five minutes before my alarm. I got out of bed in a room and world still dark, pulled the chain of my overhead light, sat down at my desk, and began my morning pages. I was done by 5:45. I dressed for the gym, crept through the house, and stepped outside, where the morning began to brighten. I took the opportunity of the walk to my car to call my mom, who was surprised to hear my voice so early.
At the gym, a trainer named Matt took my measurements and put me through another workout. At the end, I felt worn out, but fantastic. I got back to the house at quarter to eight, showered, dressed for work, and began my walk to the metro. I hit the Water Court outside our office building at quarter to nine. Early for work.
I felt incredible throughout the day, downing water constantly. During a practice meeting, I noticed that, for the first time, I wasn’t fidgeting. I felt laser-focused on the person speaking, my body happy to be at rest, without any excess energy to work out.
Then, after I got home, I ate a quick dinner and sat down to what felt like the moment of truth. Working out is a goal of mine, but not to the degree writing is. When David had asked me to gauge my commitment on a scale of one to ten, I told him eight just because writing would always come first. Still, I had let the gym dictate almost the entire day’s schedule, so I was curious how much energy I would have after the gym and a full workday.
Thirty minutes later, I hit my word target for the day. Effortlessly.
Still curious, I got in bed shortly after nine and kept the same alarm. I woke Wednesday, did my morning pages, and went to the gym, this time working out on my own. Home before eight, showered, out the door. Still on time. That night, another full stint of writing.
Then again on Thursday, this time meeting with a trainer named Stephanie who put me through a workout that left me sitting in the gym lobby, chugging water and staring into middle distance until I believed I could make it back to my car.
I wrote 100 words past my target that night and set myself a to-do item to raise my output weekly.
Friday I worked out alone again and, throughout the workday, the degree of soreness through my body felt like a calendar of the week behind. I felt Monday in my arms, Tuesday in my chest, Thursday in my legs and back…especially Thursday. Steph doesn’t mess around.
I looked back on the week agog. I had never been so diligent about going to the gym, nor had it ever been so simple to get up so early. My best guess is that by keeping the first minutes of the day for morning pages, for my own thoughts, my own company, I make it clear to myself that I am a priority, something I’m sure friends and family would agree has been an issue in the past.
And so we come to Saturday, the first day in six that I slept in. No alarm whatsoever, my first obligation of sorts at 3pm. I woke up at nine, tangled in my sheets, feeling the weight of our housecat between my feet. I looked around my sunny room with a smile.
As I got up and began my pages, noting the end of the journal, I realized how rare a morning it was. I have never enjoyed sleeping in on a Saturday or really sleeping in at all. I love the wee hours of the morning and even when I travel, if my travel partners want to rest, I creep outside and have a quick, quiet adventure before they’re up. I considered this Saturday's change, this sudden appreciation for the break, and realized that for so many years, Saturday was the only diem I ever carpe’d. I felt so little connection to the accomplishments of my weekday that Saturday bore the full brunt of my purpose in life, carrying seven days worth of expectation like a busboy with a too-high stack of plates. Unless a Friday night precluded it, I woke early on Saturdays to claim as much time to myself and with friends as possible, storing personal satisfaction in my hump for the desert of the workweek.
Today, though, I woke with a week of satisfaction in the bank, having gone to the gym eagerly with genuine goals in mind, having written indulgently because I no longer need it to save me from my own life. With all that stored up, with a body sore from effort and a journal replete with output, I saw the value in sleeping until I woke naturally.
Going forward, not only will that soft suede journal be the account of my initial time here in LA, but it will also end where I hope a routine begins. Part of me feels it dangerous to publish this after only a week. I have self-congratulated on writing progress before only to have the stream run dry. But even if I fall off dramatically, this last week will still have happened in a way that cannot be changed. It is, quite literally, in the books.
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