A little late to post this – a whole month in fact – but in my defense I was finishing a book and watching a coup d’etat.

So, yes, on December 7th I turned 41. Forty fucking one. I’ve been writing this blog – on one platform or another – for almost two decades. It’s incredible, looking back at those early posts, at how much abuse I habitually subjected my body to. The drinking, obviously, but also the constantly shifting sleep schedule, the junk food, the lack of exercise. Even thinking about it today gives me acid reflux.

Luckily I spent most of my 39th year – the year before the pandemic ruined everything – getting into shape. As I’ve written here before, I started going to Orange Theory and re-discovered Soul Cycle. I started eating better and doing yoga. As a result, I entered lockdown feeling pretty great, and it took a full three months for it to all go completely to shit.

Earlier this week I went for a run for the first time in months and it nearly killed me. I’m about 14lbs fatter than I should be, and my daily calorie consumption is a joke. We’re all in the same boat, of course — in fact many are in a far, far worse boat.

Still, I’ve set myself the (arbitrary) target of March 30th to lose those 14lbs and get back into a healthy eating and exercise routine.

It took me until my 30s to realize this obvious thing: There’s a direct correlation between my mental and physical health. And given everything happening in the world right now, I need all the sanity I can get.