Mutiny on the Body

There are so many things that are much easier said than done. Perhaps the one most difficult for me to do is, "Listen to your body."
Listen. To your body.
Most days, my body whines, cries, nags and even screams at me. And I ignore it like a child having a tantrum in the Market.
Shut up, body. I don't have time for you. Your needs are embarrassing me.

I know you are hungry, you don't have to keep telling me. I know you are tired. I know you want to sit down. But we must. Keep. Going. Things to do, people to see. Problems to solve.

 Worlds to conquer.

  I worked out today. When I came home, I walked the dog a mile and a half in 96 degree heat. I took a shower, and then in a moment of mutiny, my body did something it has never done before: it hit me.
I told my body that after the shower, it was time to vacuum, do the morning dishes. Mop, scrub, fold. Write, drive. Show up. And my body knocked my ass out.
 "I give you everything you ask for. Energy. Strength. We are stopping," my body said. And I listened.
 I laid down in bed, the fan whirring overhead. The room was dark and cool, the music turned up far too loud for a nap. And yet I fell hard, hard asleep.
After thirty minutes, I woke up in a panic, certain I had missed the whole afternoon. What do you know, the day was still there, the sun was still in the sky.  All the chores were still there. All my problems, all my worries, all the demands were still there. Even the World, was still there. Nothing died, nothing came to a screeching halt. Anarchy, apocalypse, famine, locust? Nope.  No one fell apart as a result of me listening to my body.
Not even me.