All I’ve got going for me today is a tube of Maybelline’s Rocketblast mascara, a comfy it-would-look-amazing-if-I-had-the-body-of-a-dancer-but-I-don’t sweater, and mermaid hair. That’s it.
I burnt the oatmeal, I have pimples decorating my face, and the massage I got yesterday made me sore, but I’m not sure it worked because I still feel tight and tense.
There was no sacred act of putting on the kettle this morning. No journal writing. No music. I woke up bleary and immediately hit the snooze button. God, I hate that button. I spent too much on groceries yesterday and didn’t pack a lunch, so I’ll have to drop even more so I can eat this afternoon. Or I can starve. Both are viable options. Yesterday, I was a depressed mess. The day before I was too. There was no rhyme or reason for the feeling of utter despair I carried with me. I was just tired and it was there. That feeling is still with me this morning.
The third day of dealing with this weight makes the struggle real. I wonder if that’s where the phrase comes from. On days where drama is non-existent, but getting out of bed is hard, that struggle, the struggle for joy and motivation, becomes the most important thing.
Routines help. Getting up at 5AM, surprisingly, helps. I feel motivated and creative when I get up that early. However, I still have to make a conscious effort to choose things that will beat away the darkness for a little while and give me some light.
So this morning, I will dab on some concealer to cover the dark circles under my eyes. I’ll add another layer of mascara, because two layers makes a HUGE difference. I’ll wear sparkly shoes and mix the burnt oatmeal with some Greek yogurt, honey, cinnamon, and half a handful of chocolate chips. Breakfast to go is made complete with my Baymax water bottle.
I’ll be productive and smile at my students. Because the underlying truth screams that my joy isn’t found in my circumstances. It’s found in God.
And the joy of the Lord is my strength.