Every muscle in my body aches. Every tendon and join is protesting, loudly, and my hands a dry and caked in charcoal.
Discomfort means growth, though, right? I’m supposed to like the burn in my thighs, and the rocketing discomfort every time I try and raise my arm to make another stroke on paper. I’m supposed to find joy in the endorphins, in getting healthier, right? I mostly just feel tired.
Two weeks in Taiwan and I’m back down a dress size. It’s amazing how every country we travel too has healthier food than USA. I lose weight on almost every trip. Or maybe it’s just that I can walk there, that I’m not trapped in gridlocks going nowhere.
So I’m standing here, aching and whining and wishing I could put off drawing myself for just one more day. I hate self portraits, but all the masters draw them, right? The masters were all masochists. Staring at yourself for hours, capturing every flaw and wrinkle, every discoloration and line. Who can come out the other end of that feeling good about themselves? Someone stronger than me, I suppose.
If you want to be a master of your body, of your art, of your life, you have to be a masochist. You’ve got to love that pain.
…I’d rather just have a cookie.