Fire Drill

Not necessarily of the Chinese sort.

So, we had our quarterly fire drill at work yesterday, and because I have been working out since the end of April, I had little difficulty walking down seven flights of stairs. In the past, I was unofficially designated as a Crispy Critter (i.e., I would remain at the switchboard) and only required to do this once a year. Downstairs is hard on the knees. Upstairs is hard on the lungs. I haven’t tried seven flights’ worth of upstairs, but I bet I could do it, if there were somebody to let me in through the fire door once I made it to our level.

I took my purse (ergo, my knitting) with me, thus guaranteeing that the drill would not be an actual emergency. Because we remember a few months ago when we had that bomb threat; while I had my purse and phone with me, I had unaccountably left my knitting in Lorelai in the parking garage, where I could not get to it.

Ms. Ravelled + bomb threat + knitting = happy camper
Ms. Ravelled + bomb threat – knitting + dinner date – way to get there = unhappy camper

[And some of you thought math was difficult.]

My attorney, whose middle name ought to be Noah, took his umbrella, thus guaranteeing that we would not be rained on while milling about at our designated gathering spot. We were all properly thankful. And I got a few stitches knocked out while waiting for the “all-clear” to sound.

I got those three boxes delivered to the thrift store before my workout. And the workout was brief but effective: I did a quarter-mile at something between a jog and a flat-out run, in warmer-than-usual water, at a depth of 3.5 to 5 feet. That, plus the seven flights of stairs a few hours later, equated to a respectable workout for one morning.

Right now I am engaged in a battle of wits with a large moth. He may be ahead on points, but *I* wield the Flyswatter of Doom.

I am almost to the point where the decreases begin on the first missionary hat. I’ll try it on my own head in a few minutes, and I’ll try it on the new guy when he gets here.

Ate too much at Cheesecake Factory last night: Steak Diane and Herb-Crusted Salmon, and a proper (i.e., huge) serving of garlicky potatoes. Had a nice brief chat with the new guy when I got home, and then I went to bed and just died.

And now I need to figure out how to get X amount of picking-up and puttering done in Y amount of time, with Z amount of motivation, where X is far, far greater than either Y or Z.