The last time I had 34 or more posts in a month was way back in October 2009 when I wrote 38 posts. I’m still not sure how I managed that. Temporary insanity, perhaps. Maybe this current spate of activity is a sign that I’ll be firing on all cylinders for National Novel Writing Month, coming some 31 days from now. Looking over my posts since the start of the month, my novel will be less a story and more a series of image macros about someone who runs regularly. I’ll call it The Jogger. No, too plain. That Jogging Guy. Hmm. That probably wouldn’t work, either. To really cash in it should be something like The Girl Who Jogged or The Girl Who Wore Running Shoes or The Girl [something something to go with the other billion novels that have appeared recently that have titles starting with “The Girl.” Thanks, Stieg Larsson who isn’t even alive].
Anyway, one of the things I’ve noticed is I can no longer stay up late on the weekend like in olden times because my body is so used to getting up early that all of my fun/party genes turn out the lights by 11 p.m. This is to say that while I am typing this I am also starting to nod off, so I’ll probably go to bed soon. But at least on the weekend I can sleep in. Except I feel guilty now when I do that, then regret it after I wake up because I have less time to do other things, both productive and otherwise, and also I won’t get the 12 hours of standing activity on my Apple Watch and somehow that has become important to me. On the plus side, it has reduced the chances of varicose veins or gout or something. Whatever it is that happens when you don’t stand enough, like our hunter/gatherer ancestors used to (I mean that they stood a lot, not the opposite. I’m pretty sure they spent almost every day hunting bears or maybe just one especially wily bear who always eluded their spears and traps. They’d call him Ol’ Scoot because he’d always scoot off before they could catch him. You couldn’t just sit around when Ol’ Scoot taunted you like that. Plus maybe you haven’t developed enough brain power yet to stop gathering poison berries to nosh on, so you really need some of that good bear meat or the stories around the cave fire are going to be all, “Remember when we had more than three of us to tell stories about that stupid Ol’ Scoot to? No, I’m good on the berries, thanks.”)
