[Other than it’s blurry.]
Yeah, I know. The top one was in my purse; this would be the tube I picked up yesterday morning before work. The shorter one was in my knitting bag; the same knitting bag that I frisked repeatedly before calling the pharmacy.
And there it was, beaming up at me when I put my knitting bag up in my cubby this morning. It’s about time for the annual eye exam. This would seem to be evidence that one is warranted.
We had a really tasty Cinco de Mayo celebration at work. Home cooking from several of my coworkers, perfectly seasoned and no exploding ankle as a souvenir, woohoo! I ate moderately, enjoyed myself because I hid out at my best friend’s desk instead of in the large conference room with most of the office, and was comfortable all afternoon, with no cravings, just a bit of drowsiness from all those lovely carbs.
I have another confession to make. EvinrudeЯNotUs. I still crack up when I think about it. Since I tackled half of Mount Washmore on Tuesday evening, and since my yoga pants were still damp-ish, I decided to make a virtue of necessity and spend my entire workout in the pool. (Yeah, broke my heart!) I grabbed a kickboard, pushed off, puttered forward about fifteen feet before sputtering out. I knew it was time to stop when all my kicking was pushing me backward.
And here I thought that I was only a socially backward child.
So I put the kickboard on the lip of the pool and started jogging toward the other end. Somebody faster than I had grabbed “my” lane. The nerve. I had to duck my head under the rope between lanes. Did I mention that I don’t like getting my face wet? Or water in my ears? I also don’t like getting halfway down the lane and realizing that the pool not only slopes downward from the head (girls’ end, naturellement) to the foot (boys’ end), but from side to side. Just enough to induce mild anxiety at the 4’ level and volte-face at the 4’6” level.
So I dipped under the second rope and had the third lane all to myself, along with something to grab onto if I got the willies again. And I walked/jogged half a mile.
I keep adding to the list of things I want/need to buy next payday: earplugs, swim cap, and another pair of soccer slides, the kind with nubbly pegs up against one’s feet, rather than the cushy padding that soaks up water like crazy and doesn’t want to let go of it. The kind that I have now, which are drying out in the Betty Ford Center which is my bathroom.
I need to take the deadbolt apart and jiggle it about. I learned how to do that when we had the house in Irving. At the moment, there’s a 50/50 chance that I will have to struggle to lock the house when I leave. And a considerably greater chance that I will have to struggle to unlock it when I get home. Hence my Facebook status of a few days ago, re: Schlage’s Hypothesis, which is that the likelihood of one’s key sticking in the lock is directly proportional to one’s need to use the loo.
I’m in and out at least twice a day. This is getting old...
I fixed it. I think this calls for a celebratory load of laundry, now that I know I can get out and get in again.
And an ice cream cone as a chaser.
- Four 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!