Friday, January 9, 2015

Rambling on a Friday

So I've made this new deal with myself. I need to exercise every day. In the interests of actually seeing that happen, I either have to hit the yoga mat or the treadmill for thirty minutes, or I have to clean something for an hour.

I hate to clean. I come from a long line of women who hate to clean. I don't mind working out. I like the way I feel when I'm done. I like the positive effects it has on both my physical and state, but I'm a really bad starter. Procrastination Central, that's where you'll find me.

You'd think that given the option, I'd chose working out. I thought I would. My house has never been cleaner. I'm a little bemused, bordering on confused, blinded by all the shiny, dusted surfaces surrounding me. A journal entry into Good Housekeeping was not the expected result.

Don't get me wrong, I do kind of like it, but I still need to hit the mat at least three times a week. I have major house projects that need to be done this spring and summer and I'd really like to skip the part where I end up hobbling around like a ninety year old after spending all day moving rock. Using muscles you haven't stretched for years in full weekend-warrior-yard-apocalypse mode is painful. I'm trying not to do that this year. I've hit the stage in my life where I actually know I have a lower back.

I have landscaping to do. The house needs a coat of paint. The crawlspace needs a vapor barrier and some insulation - which is what started this repair list in the first place. I was standing at my computer typing and my feet became ice cubes. That's what happens when you live in an old house in need of some TLC.

That also led to new fur-lined boots I can wear around the house. They look ridiculous, like I could snow shoe in them, but I now understand why so many people wear them despite that fact. My tootsies are toasty. Now if I could just get them on the treadmill.

1 comment:

  1. Hire me. I work cheap. I only require a reliable Wi-Fi connection...access to Diet Mt. Dew...and wasabi peas...an occasional Turner Classic movie...and a little room of my own...forthwith (har! is that a word?) where I could complete my great American Ruthie novel. I would tackle the "Hippie Do" list and pay $500 a month for the pleasure.

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