The brain space of psyching oneself up is an interesting one. When enacting a new behavior, it’s a push that feels almost physical. You’ll say to yourself This morning I will X. But X requires a different type of pants, a new shoe. You are unprepared. So the new behavior settles in for the evening, to prepare for the next day’s push, a fly against the glass, bip bip bip, aimed at the light. This morning it is a fear of waking the husband. Husband is really a terrible morning person, a version of himself unrecognizable to the marriage proper. This morning I will not X, because cranky hubs, ergo I cannot flip the closet light. The fly is more insistent; we have entered the realm of brain buzz. X is important, bzzzzz. Time to do X. Get off your ass and X. You have had the pleasure of working with vascular surgeons and now know too much about wounds, and how wounds get to be forever wounds through the accumulation of American flesh. Get UP. But instead there is a fugue state, an opposite effect, a nap, probably some ice cream. This is the catalyst. The husband is up. Go and get the pants, the shoes. Place them in a location of impossible avoidance. A shrine to the sneaker. A charged ipod speaker. A foam mat so long rolled a spider has made a home in the void. The next morning is when X occurs – finally, emerging to a bright day on the top level parking deck, breathing sky. And so it begins, the muscle memory filling in for conscious thought, moving through poses, wondering if the traffic below can see X. Yes. The release from the action is not proportional to the cortisol cascade it took to get you out there. You’re just doing X again, it’s normal. You’ll go again the next morning. It’s stupid, the come down, the adjustment, the lack of notable change in one’s daily routine. Maybe some soreness, a nervy reminder that you are actually changing. A briefly unslakable thirst as water moves differently through your body, finding purpose.