I stayed up way too late last night.

Not because I was out living some glamorous life but because Alien Earth dropped and apparently I have zero impulse control when it comes to streaming sci-fi. I was going to try and nap in the early evening, but I’m just really bad at napping. Which, when you consider I’m over 40, is just unfair.

But now it’s the next day, and I’m on the floor doing hip and ankle stretches, questioning every life choice that led me here. My body feels like it’s made entirely of knots and bad decisions. My brain is still somewhere in deep space. My coffee is just out of reach.

Stretching like this always makes me feel a bit ridiculous. The movements are slow, awkward, and very much not cool person material. But here’s the thing: I need it. My ankles have the mobility of a stubborn Victorian door hinge, and my hips did not enjoy pregnancy fifteen years ago and just won’t stop reminding me. If I don’t keep moving them, they will absolutely stage a rebellion.

So I keep going. Leaning, twisting, holding. Leaning, rotating, stumbling. Leaning, stretching, swearing.

It’s not glamorous, it’s not fast, and it’s definitely not going on an 80s workout montage. And when I finally stand up, I feel a little better, a little more human, not smug enough to justify last night’s sci-fi binge. But at least I did it.

Will I go to bed earlier next time? Absolutely not. We might just have to resign ourselves to the fact that I’ll be awake at one in the morning every Wednesday for the next 7 weeks.

But I’ll stretch again tomorrow. Consider it my way of negotiating peace between my passions and my joints.