Today marks the first day of our fiscal new year. *horns* *champagne* *kiss* As part of my attempt to live longer, I’ve been talking about considering trying to exercise more. na ga da. I am disinclined to exercise, have been all of my life. I purchased some motivation in the form of a FitBit which, thus far, has managed to do what glaring at the scale, struggling into pre-maternity pants, and all around malaise has not: I now walk a minimum of 10,000 steps (about 5 miles) a day JUST to get my little digital award. I suspect my canjoose nature has something to do with it too: why did I buy this $100 gadget if I’m not going to use it?! (interro-what-a-waste!). I’ve yet to walk with music or podcasts streaming in my ear because I’m likely to be one of those walk-into-a-ditch type people if I did. I’m left only with my thoughts, stream of consciousness, and snippets of songs rattling around in my brain.
Men: [jogging] "I knew a woman in Paris, France, Had a big hole in her underpants" -- Skinner: Wait, wait, wait, wait. Where did you pick up that filth? Recruit: We heard Sergeant Clarke's company singing it, Sir! Skinner: Yes, well there will be no smut in my company. You're in this man's army to learn! Men: [jogging] "I don't know, but I've been told The parthenon is mighty old." Skinner: How old? Men: We don't know. Skinner: That's real good, but needs improvement.
Meanwhile, I’ve been attending physical therapy for my wonky arm. Whether its pre-carpal tunnel syndrome, a pinched nerve, or something else, my therapist is taking care of me. I wonder sometimes if she puts me in so much pain that when she finally releases me and asks, “does it feel better?” the answer always has to be “yes” because the applied pain has been alleviated. Big bag o’ ice, please.