And sometimes I just sits…
Back
in the 70s and 80s, this quirky/funny/silly little saying could be found
everywhere. T-shirts. Coffee mugs. Posters. I had the mug. It tickled me.
Mostly because it could’ve been my personal motto. My life—summed up.
I’m
not athletic. Never have been. Never will be. No volleyball. No basketball. No track. I was on the drill team
at my high school. In fact, I was one of five officers my junior year and one of
six my senior year. Lieutenant ELM (M=Maiden Name), if you don’t mind. I loved
it. I fancied myself a wannabe professional dancer. Someone with a natural
gift, because, of course, I never took lessons. (Well, that’s not exactly true.
I did take dance for a very short time when I was about five years old. Ballet
was not my cup of tea, apparently. I vaguely remember crying quite a bit, on
the way to class. Begging my mother to take me back home. She finally gave in
to my sad pleas.)
I’ve
always hated aerobics. I tried “step” aerobics when TLC was about six or seven
years old. A friend of mine was the instructor. She taught at the Recreation
Hall in our small town. There was a BIG mirror for all of us to watch
ourselves. Check our technique and progress. Darn that mirror. I was shocked at how horribly bad I observed myself to truly be. I
couldn’t keep up to save my life. The mirror actually served to confuse me even
more than I already was and I only lasted three or four sessions. Too
frustrating. Too humiliating.
I also tried Yoga, in a mostly Senior Citizens' type group, for a few sessions about seven years ago. I was probably a tidbit better at it than aerobics. And I was, more than likely, the youngest one there. Which is always good for your self-esteem. However, it made me dizzy. Chow Yoga.
I
do love to walk. Hike. Nothing serious or strenuous. Just a skosh over a
leisurely pace. I’m also not dedicated to walking. Like I need to be—at my age
of 59 closer to 60. Yikes. Every day I wake up promising myself to walk with
intention and for at least two miles. Every night I get in bed disappointed in
myself. Sigh. (My other motto: There's Always Tomorrow.)
Yep. I
like to sits. On my bed. On a couch. In a comfy
chair. In a car. At a cafe. In a movie theatre. Sitting is my passion. (It's looking like it could also be Little Leighton's preference, bless her heart. Darn genetics.) I love to read. Watch TV. Snooze.
Write. Dream.
Where am I headed with all of this fascinating trivia? We
had a cold front hit North Central Texas last night. Got some rain
(Yippee—although it was only a teeny tiny drop in the bucket. We need a major rain "event" to help us in this scary and discouraging drought. Don't get me wrong. We are grateful for the blessing. No matter how small. Promise. Thank you, Dear Lord Almighty.) near midnight. According to the weather professionals (Who, by the way, have one of the few jobs, at least in America, that allow you to make lots of money and never have to be right, right?), we’re to have a high chance of freezing rain for several days. (They like to cover their you-know-whats by giving us the worst-case scenarios, since they've been caught, many times, being completely/totally/grossly and dead-you-know-what wrong.)
So,
here I am. It’s Friday. It’s cold. It’s
semi-dangerous to leave our country casa on top of our big hill with the prediction that
our steep road could be hit with ice while we’re gone. Today seems to be a
perfect day to…
Sits. (I currently have no plans to Thinks.)
Gotta scoot. My couch is calling...
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