I fell from the rooftop of the GPO and landed on a cart of nails. Twice. At least that's what my body felt like when I woke up this morning. I had no idea that playing tennis for three and a half hours would bring me so much pain.
In retrospect, perhaps I was aware of that. Maybe I enjoyed the pain.
As I stood there, my unattractively sweaty hands attempting to grip the tennis racket, waiting for my friend Kate to serve, feeling like at any moment, my body would just keel over and die - I realised that I had the capability - and more significantly, the freedom, to stop this amateur tennis game and take a break. But I never did. I was pushing my body to the limit, the way I do my mom's credit card.
Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe the feeling of being invincible, while at the same time, fatally breathless, was addictive. Maybe adrenaline was my recreational drug of choice.
Maybe I'm reading into this too much.
Anyway, I didn't ask for a break. The three bottles of Evian were left unopened and un-drunk. I just kept going.
As I attempt to write this post (even my fingers hurt like a bitch), I realise that I'm a masochist.
Like writing this insignificant blog, I push myself to the edge because it feels so good when I stop.
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