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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