No idea where that came from; it might have been the tuna-fish sandwiches at the dance last night. In my dream, the girls were younger, but I was still living here in the duplex. And I was trying to figure out how we were going to get the piano up four steps (front door) or two (kitchen door). Never mind the fact that there would have been no place to put the piano, once we got it inside, unless my half of the duplex had suddenly acquired the properties of Hermione's hat or bag or whatever it was. (I really do need to sit down and re-read the series.)
It is weird to wake up and have it be light outside. The birds are making quite a racket out there. I can hear them clearly over the drone of the window unit. I think one of them has a drinking problem, because his cry sounds a lot like “Smirnoff! Smirnoff! Smirnoff!”
I had a good workout yesterday; spent all of it in the pool. Half a mile seems to be about my limit before all the splashing and splooshing tells my highly suggestible kidneys that we need to get out and go head for the loo. I tried something new: I stepped into the steam room for about 15 seconds. Long enough to satisfy my curiosity and decide that, like the Shock Wave at Six Flags over Texas, it is something I have done once and don’t ever have to do again. It was like Houston or Boca Raton on steroids. (Hot. Humid.) I’ll just wait for August, thank you; that’s as close to Hades as I ever hope to get.
I didn’t bother with the treadmill or recumbent bike, because I knew I was going to the dance, where I would more than make up for slacking off in the morning.
Had a really good time. Met some new people, reconnected with others, got out on the floor and waved my hand around during “All the Single Ladies,” nibbled on goodies from the refreshment table, drank three glasses of lemonade, and wrangled with a floor that had been too-recently refinished for good dancing. [Not recently enough that there were fumes, but the floor was sticky notwithstanding my ballet slippers.]
Brother Sushi, who is the kindest of dance partners, looked me in the eye and said, “I’m a leader, not a motor. You’re not going where I’m trying to lead you. I need some help here.” Sorry, bro, I was doing the best that I could. Shortly before I left, I borderline wrenched my knee while rocking out. Stopped just in time, but my knee (same leg that I broke while line-dancing a few years ago) told me distinctly, “Do that again, and I will put you on the floor on your rear.”
Doesn’t feel as if I have torn anything, but it’s still a little tender this morning. Not so much that I need to grab my cane, but I’m thinking no treadmill for the next few days, just a quick whirl on the recumbent bike, with most of my time in the pool.
I got a great manicure yesterday. [Instead of the usual cable drivel on NailDude’s TV, we had the last bit of “You’ve Got Mail.”] I made a quick run into Ulta and splurged on a bottle of O*P*I and now sport almost the exact shade of warm lavender I’ve been looking for since reading that article in “Real Simple” earlier this year. Never thought the day would come when I’d spend $8.50 for a bottle of nail polish! It’s from the limited-edition Shrek line: “Rumple’s Wiggin’.”
We have ward conference today. Which means a spiritual feast, and a whole lot of meetings, and no nap for Ms. Ravelled unless I can sneak one in before ward council at 11:30. Still, I’m looking forward to it.
- Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!