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It's January and the temperature is pushing 55 degrees in Denver, beckoning me to play outside in the world's warmth. Yet my body is barely willing to reach for and pull another tissue from the half-empty box beside my bed. I've been laying in the same position all afternoon: head propped up on two pillows to allow my sinuses to drain, arms aching at my sides as I lay beneath three thick blankets. Why this weekend? Why not next weekend? I think this to myself, brushing off the truth that no weekend is ideal timing for a case of pharyngitis, but especially in Colorado.

I would bet that almost everyone who calls this state home acknowledges there's an immense pressure that comes with living in a playground such as this because there's always the next best outdoor activity to keep you busy. Skiing in the winter. Running in the spring. Hiking in the summer. Climbing in the fall. It's constantly at your fingertips. I'd personally rather walk around a city park, one of the more mild pursuits, than flip through Netflix. So on days, or even a full week, when I'm forced to rest, it can feel like torture. 

Since I was little, I was a master multi-tasker. I squirmed out of my dad's lap while watching movies to grab my coloring books and markers. Now, I keep my hands busy with tasks around my apartment while I'm on the phone or regretfully checking email on road trip. It's because I'm most happy when I'm constantly in motion. But on days like this, when I'm forced to stay in bed and catch up on my favorite blogs, it's actually nice. I'm reminded of how essential rest is to be at my best. And admittedly, I go through this cycle every year, it seems. Having to stay inside makes me more appreciative of the choice to exercise, rebooting me out of my lethargic slump, year after year. 

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