In the last few weeks I have cut down greatly on cardiovascular exercise (even down from exam season), which has resulted in extra time, a burst of creative energy, and the occasional panic attack.  There is definite irony in stubbornly trying to not do something that is good for you (exercise), or stubbornly making yourself do something not necessarily good for you, such as eating a Toni's bacon mushroom swiss burger for breakfast, yet I insist that careless versatility has greater virtue than a bulldozer of asceticism.  The entire point of not exercising, in addition to being rested and having time, is that I loathe that I have to do it.  I have really enjoyed being able to sleep in and relax for entire days; it is even nicer now after unlearning and relearning it, than when I did it all the time as a kid and didn't care. 
But then sometimes my defenses are lowered for some other reason, too little sleep, too much tedious work, sore muscles, and I become a horrible werewolf and have to go into the woods and listen to metal music.  I do horrible things like call JT fifteen times and tell him we are/aren't/are/aren't going to do something awesome, I text someone who I am almost sure is satan, I eat entire chocolate bars, I cry about how I am going to be worthless and alone for all my life.  There is a deeply entrenched part of me that is sure that if I don't go to yoga or the gym I'll be fat and therefore worthless.  It's shallow and I know it's shallow but it definitely happening to me as a horrible, all encompassing feeling.  That I have horrible stretches of panic when I am fighting it makes me more resolved to believe it is a good fight.

three dreams

From the most recent and back.  (Actually the most recent was just now in savasana - I was thinking, "is this the mermaid crypt freezer?" which, being crazy, tipped me off that I had fallen asleep.)

I was at the bakery standing at the table with Rhonda and Shelby.  Rhonda was showing us this diagnostic tool which looked just like user friendly 2000s computer hardware.  She was demonstrating how you could insert a card and it measured out ratios of something, I'm assuming flour.  She also was recounting a recent interaction with nurses at the hospital (she was a nurse in the dream but isn't really).  They were standing around a young man who had gone soft on his innards and couldn't stand up anymore.  No skeleton, just jelly.  The nurses were all going at him with knives and razor blades, attempting to surgically address the problem, but Rhonda was screaming no! Stop! You're hurting him! It's too late for him.

I was on some sort of old fashioned foot and forest and riverside journey and it slowly dawned on me that in cargo was some amorphous creature that needed my care.  It was so helpless but needy, so I was obligated to sacrifice any thought of individual goals.  I started to fall unconditionally in love with it, and at the same time it began to become a duck made of snow.  When there were long stretches away from the water it would get sickly and I would have to scramble to get it to safety somehow.  At one point we were in a dicey situation and I climbed around a building by the gutters with one arm, the other arm holding my charge.  Anna heard this dream and thinks I am pregnant or pregnant with potential.

Jake M was my goofy brother and we were driving around some volvo dealership looking for a guy to detail our volvos.  I looked at my ipod clock and it said 12:08 and I just remembered I was supposed to be on a flight at 11:08.  I told Jake to hurry up and he told me it would only be another minute.  Andrew Z was the pilot and there was a cut away shot right before I woke up in which he was looking at his gold wristwatch and growing very frustrated.