Les Fourmis

I'm feeling antsy and I don't know why.

Which is odd.  Introspection has become a bit of a hobby lately - and even if my internal reader isn't working, I can usually make something up for the sake of the blog.  I mean, who wants to read about me not knowing what's wrong with me? 

But I apologize, today is just one of those days.  Where things are unsettled in my heart and my head and I somehow can't relax into my idyllic surroundings (and this place is so beautiful, my inability to enjoy it amounts to pure blasphemy in my book).

I'm worried about the novel (the re-read is actually giving me stomach cramps).  I'm worried about never finding a job, or finding the wrong one (add one splitting headache to the tummy upset).  I'm worried about my fitness level being seriously under par for the Paris 20km I'm running in October (a dash of lung constriction and sore thighs sprinkled over the mix).  And all the other things I don't even know about yet, but that are surely very worrying as well (bake at 240°C for one hour and serve with custard).

So there you go.  It's not very interesting for you (hell, it's not even very interesting for me) and there's not much you can do to help (although I've never been known to refuse a massage and a cup of tea).  But cleverer people than myself say it's good to share, so consider yourself shared with.