Dog Days of Summer

I love my bed. At 6:45 am this is the only coherent thought I am able to muster.  That and I don't want to get out of bed.  Don't even want to move. Moving is misery. Lying in one spot I am comfortable, cocooned in cushiony softness, every muscle and joint cradled and caressed.  The effort required to move is an immediate mistake.  

I haven't posted in nearly two weeks because I have been pinned down in front of my computer screen like a dog-faced infantryman in a foxhole.  I am working on a September 1 writing deadline that has me sitting in front of the magical iMac for ten, twelve and even fourteen hours at a stretch. On Sunday we were supposed to run 25 miles but relented after 23.5 in heat that approached 80 degrees and humidity that went over it.  My life is conspiring against me.  Did I mention that I don't want to get out of bed?

Every injury it seems I have ever had is making itself felt.  Or at least the ones that required cutting and stitching.  As I shift my bones I feel every mile run this past month, feel every hour spent slouched in from of my computer screen.  Neck and lower back creak and moan, hip bones and shoulder joints whine and commiserate, and my knee, even the knee that has never given me a lick of trouble has nothing good to say this morning.

But dogs have to be walked, caffeine addictions satiated and deadlines honoured.  

I am labouring away towards Labour Day.