I've been swimming lately, due to some tendinitis in my foot, and have been stealing the techniques of the more-professional swimmers in the other lanes. I'm thinking of taking some swimming lessons, not because I don't know how to swim, but because I don't know how to swim properly. My legs wiggle a bit too much and my arms flail inaccurately. Also, I do not have a proper swimsuit for exercise laps. The one I have is frilly and covers as much of me as possible (which means it has a long top and a long skirt). The first day I swam, my left strap came undone. This happened to be right when I was approaching a group of small children, there for their weekly swimming lessons. Good times.
As far as writing goes, I haven't done any. At least not in any large quantity. I have a few grandma poems, and started a series of poems about my boss, who hates Pittsburgh for the silliest reasons (one of which is because Pittsburgh houses have basements). I take notes when I visit my grandma, who always gives me great poem lines, but I have to disconnect after I recognize them as significant or else I start to cry. And who wants a visit from a crying granddaughter?
But I'm getting back to writing. I hope.
In the meantime, I'm learning to dislike Emma Woodhouse. She's just too . . . shallow? Girly? Insignificant? Something. But kudos to Jane Austen for making me feel something toward her. Even books aren't the same to me anymore.
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