…you know, like idle…
Why no, I have not done reams of writing and editing this weekend, but I have probably read several fathoms of Twitter feed.
I’m working on a short story that takes place during the August 2017 eclipse, and what I wouldn’t give for that to be the collective event everyone’s talking about right now!
And growing salad greens.
And trying to keep up with exercising; I was so proud that my resting heart rate had dropped as low as 67 for the first time ever (since getting a FitBit, but realistically…ever), and now that I haven’t been in two weeks and have been reappropriating my former elliptical time for More Anxiety, my rhr is at 75. It fluctuates, but I was on a good streak of staying below 73.
And practicing all of the songs from Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the harp.
I still do pilates on a yoga mat that fits between my bed and my door, and for which I only occasionally have to open my closet door to spread my arms out adequately, infrequently bang a foot against my dust buster, sometimes have to scoot nearly under the bed.
Grocery stores and pharmacies in my neighborhood all have ample toilet paper. The cold/cough aisles are fairly picked over, but Charmin is stacked in pyramids.
Every time I see an image of the pandemic curves, I want to reach out and physically squish them into the shape we’re after, as if they were made of modeling clay. And from relative lack of use – the walking to and from the subway, or the coffee shop, or the library, is no small thing in aggregate – my body is starting to feel less human and more like clay. And really less like clay and more like one of the gummy erasers you can stretch apart and then force back together, until what started out pliable and clean has the consistency and grayness of old gum.
