kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Maintenance

  • Achy Breaky Creaky Self

    Working From Home I’m alive and well after making much ado over my stint at the keyboard yesterday. But barely. I can honestly say that if I had been writing fiction, then I may have ended the day on a higher note, without the headache and stiff neck. Without barely being able to straighten myself and walk into the next room. I could have been writing a piece of fiction oozing with superfluous adjectives that make one wince in much the same way an extremely sweet piece of candy does. With a feisty character whose name is Alexandra or Fiona. Yes, perhaps something on the steamy side conjuring images of gazelle like bodies cavorting through the surf on a tropical island after an intense session of exertion — you know, at a spa. Uh, you weren’t thinking what I think you were thinking. Were you? Shame.

    But still. Entertaining.

    And after two very early mornings of strenuous walking — well, for me it’s strenuous — I could barely move after sitting here as long as I did. Tell me. Why is it that I can sit here and do what I want to do, and am not stiff and sore at all? Hmmmm…? Mind over matter, I’m sure. How pathetic. But I’m also exaggerating.

    So today, I’m not going to sit here any longer than necessary. I’ll actually get in my car for a reason other than to carpool kids to school. I’m going to Target — the land of uber cool advertising and chic but cheap stuff to purchase that I don’t really need. I wander up and down the aisles with absolutely no purpose on earth other than to look at countless items I won’t buy. Sure, I have a list of the usual “have tos” to purchase, but I wait until the end to pick up those items. After I’ve perused the book section longingly. After I’ve cruised through the plants. After I’ve looked at the cookware, the gadgets, and the stationery. The towels. Candles. Sportswear.

    I do need some sports wear. You know, for sports. Okay, so not sports. But exercise.

    Yes, I still exercise, but you should see what I exercise in. To convince you, I’d offer to let you smell it, since I wear it more than once a week, but I’m sure you’d politely decline. I need to get back into some kind of a routine. The ocean water was less than lovely when I last swam because of waves, low temperatures, tons of seaweed and tourists who just stand in the water. They do. Plus, we had begun to ramp up the intensity of our swim, so I’d end up with my tongue hanging down to my knees after I got home, already dreading the next time we’d go. Then, the humid weather seriously kicked my butt (I would so not be able to live on the Right Coast or in the South, weakling that I am…) and I’ve had some issues with my joints — especially my wrists. And no, it isn’t because I’m typing. One hurts more than the other, and the last time I checked, my right hand wasn’t hitting more keys than the other. Yes, the keyboard is level with my wrists. Yes, yes, yes. To be honest, the soreness is probably yet another change related to hormones. Do you know how annoying it is to have to say that? I hate saying it. It’s like calling “uncle” or whatever that is when someone has you pinned. I give up, okay? Except I can’t.

    I’ve been a bit resistant to finding out exactly why my body is feeling the way it does from one time to the next. I’ve never been one to dwell on aches and pains I may have except in the paragraph above… A headache rarely moves me to take an aspirin. I just grin and bear it, and always have. But I’ve also never had body parts removed, and it gives me the creeps to think about it — still. I’d rather ignore what I notice instead of acknowledging that concern hovers around in my mind with every change I notice. I’d rather not be reminded about how much in my body has been affected by the removal of those organs.

    I used to understand when I was exhausted after a long and busy day at work. Even then, I’d deal with it understanding that I could get in bed earlier, or pay attention to my diet, make sure I was exercising, or quit my job! But this is different. I’m exhausted today and I have no reason to explain it. Yes, I got up at 6:30. And I spent some time outside trimming bushes grown over during the summer. But that shouldn’t make me tired. I could take a nap right now, and I’ve never, ever been one who naps. Remember napping in Kindergarten? Sheesh. I could never go to sleep like the other kids. I’d lay there on my towel from home staring at the ceiling tiles and watching the kid next to me drool and twitch until the teacher told me to go to sleep. And then I’d shut my eyes and pretend.

    My knees feel better today than they did yesterday– but that’s because we didn’t do “intervals” during our walk yesterday morning, or the walking lunges that I know I will pay dearly for when I do them.  Ten of them.

    My VBF is just stronger than I am. Plain and simple. She does it all and just keeps on ticking. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m whining when I say that I’m sore, or that my arm is throbbing as I walk, forcing me to raise it over my head to relieve the pressure. But yesterday was the straw. I vaguely remember my doctor saying something about glucosamine…so I finally decided to see what I could find about why I’m feeling this way, and what I can do about it.

    It’s pretty depressing to read:

    “You may feel listless, depressed, isolated, indifferent, unenergetic, weak, unable to sleep, or anxious. You may lose emotional stability and contentment, becoming moody, hair-triggered, prone to fits of tears for little obvious reason, irrational, impatient, lacking any self-esteem. You may have trouble breathing, experience irregular heartbeats, or experience anxiety attacks.”

    Oh, and here’s a good one with respect to the effect of low estrogen on memory:

    ” You may know what you want to say, but the specific word just isn’t in your brain even though you know it’s one you know very well. You may forget or lose things, or you may get lost yourself, unable to remember how to travel a route with which you are familiar.”

    Hmmm…yes, I’ve noticed this. In fact, it’s a bit scary when I’m driving somewhere and I have to think about where I’m going because I’ll just drive on auto pilot. Yes, I’ve done this before, and do remember doing it when I was in my late teens and early 20’s. But now? Feh. It happens all the time. No, I do not have ADD.

    Ah-Ha! Look at this:

    “Both physical energy and joint inflamation seem to be related to estrogen levels. When they dip, we may become physically fatigued beyond whatever sleep we’re losing to insomnia. We may also develop creaky, aching joints, stiffness after being still, and actual symptoms or exacerbation of osteoarthritis, especially in the knees.”

    Ah, but validation is a double edged sword, isn’t it?

    I am seriously going to Target. Either that or bawl my head off. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself — ever. But this is ridiculous. When I find some energy, I’ll figure it all out. In the mean time, I guess I’ll just keep looking for answers, keep exercising, and try to understand it all.

    It’s not fair. I know. Life’s not fair. Hahahaha. Whatever.

  • I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.

    Well, it’s happened. I actually have a responsibility that will take up quite a bit of my writing time. And I actually get paid to do it. Yes, it’s writing. No, it isn’t creative — well, not creative writing. The writing is for a project that is very creative, and extremely worthwhile.

    So much for languishing in Bloggsville whenever I want for as long as I wish.

    Now I have to figure out how I’m going to manage writing here, writing for submission, and writing for the project. Okay, reverse the order on that list, and that’s the frame of mind I need to be in.

    I know there are most likely people out there who can manage this — in fact, much more — and I would have been able to as well about this time last year. But I know myself. And when I jump off the treadmill, it’s quite difficult for me to jump back on while it’s running at a good clip.

    So schedule it is. Goodness knows I’m good at that. I scheduled every minute of every day for most of every year for nearly two decades. I still shudder with the horror of it all.

    Regardless, I will recommit to the habit of each night, doing my schedule for the next day. It’s a compromise, considering that my life was scheduled from a yearly, monthly, and weekly perspective before. I’m not breaking out my planner. Yet. But I may have to. Ugh. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

    But I can’t neglect you. It would keep me awake at night, wondering about how you’re doing, and imagining what you thought about why I’d abandoned you.

    So don’t give up on me. Not just yet.

    It’s all for a good cause. I’ll tell you about it later…

    Time is money.

    Sigh.

    p.s. The woman across the street is speaking very loudly to her gardener about making the hole for her lemon tree deeper so the water can run into it. He has an accent and his English is very intelligible, but broken. She must think that if she yells her directives as if he is deaf, he will understand her better. And the man must be quite patient, tolerating such a client.  He’s already completed the task, and the woman is now praising him with the tone a Kindergarten teacher uses on a 5-year-old who has remembered to wash his hands after exiting the restroom. I’d pay money to know what he’s thinking about her right now. Who the hell came up with the idea of “ignorance is bliss?” Jeez.

    Okay, now I’m behind. Ugh.

  • Third Pounders, Slim-Fast & a Stevia Chaser to Go, Please.

    I’ve got food on my brain today. I know you’re currently questioning an image of me with a fried egg on my head or something. Or perhaps wondering if I’ve gone bonkers having decided that if I lay food on my head, then I won’t be able to absorb calories, and will still be able to nourish myself. Condition my hair at the same time as well? Ah….no. I’ve succumbed. I’ve pulled the Slim-Fast from the back of the fridge. And worse? I’ve cracked open a jar of 100% Pure Stevia for my coffee this morning. And fat-free Coffee Mate. Blech. Seriously.

    So that means I’ve consumed any number of barely pronounceable “ingredients,” and “minerals” this morning. *sigh* How I miss my Kashi and blueberries. And what the hell is Stevia, anyway? I saw it at Trader Joe’s, thought about it for two whole seconds and threw it in my basket right before vacation. Past experience has proven that no matter how much I have walked, or as in the case this year, swam and paddled a kayak, I return blimplike. A veritable dumpling just missing the gravy. A chubbette. Or phattissima. Have I made my point?

    Retrospectively, I did not pork out on our vacation:

    Chicken and Sausage Kabobs with Rice and a salad. Not big portions. Roasted veggies, mushrooms….YUM. Oh, but the MoH made Banana pancakes the next morning. Yes, and he drove them to the beach slathered in butter and “lite” syrup where my VBF and I were staked out with lounge chairs and building our compound at 8AM.

    Then Grilled Tri-Tip, Roasted potatoes, and salad. Again, not big portions. Oh. But there were lovely berries and cream with chocolate chip merengues. Meringues don’t have calories, right? And berries are loaded with antioxidants. So there was only a plop of cream. Not too bad.

    But there was breakfast again the next day. But then there were those grilled pork chops and quinoa salad with grilled bread. And pancakes and waffles the next morning. Oh my gawd, and then that pasta the last night with grilled sausage, chicken, veggies….And that baked blueberry crisp. With vanilla ice cream. Y-U-M.

    Of course, I consumed absolutely no wine the entire time. Don’t blink or you’ll miss those low flying pigs…

    Okay, so does no lunch every single day count for anything? Jeez. What am I supposed to do, starve myself?

    Um…so on the way home we stopped at Mickey D’s. I just had to try one of those new angus Boi-gahz. Had. To.

    Lunch on the Road What? You can’t see it quite clearly?

    Boi-gah It actually tasted like a real hamburger. For the first time ever. And I don’t want to hear anything about Fast Food Nation, okay? Gimmeabreak. I’m not a Fast Food Frequent Flyer and I eat my grains and veggies regularly, okay? So no surprise that I’m not a vegetarian, but I have read recently that vegetarians are eating more meat… Just not Mickey D’s.

    So how many calories could be in one hamburger? Huh? Uh, according to this source, only about 800. Uh, approximately three Lean Cuisine frozen entrees. That’s three lunches. No, I’m not checking on the fries. Or the Sprite. So probably four lunches.

    My Slim-Fast has 190 calories. The Stevia zip.

    Whatever.

    Tomorrow I have to deal with the Thinner Bitch, that heartless, cold, slab of worthless metal and springs that I may launch across the street if she gives me any grief in the morning.

    Thinner Bitch

  • I told you.

    All of you faithful short hair scientists know that I’ve been making a weak assed attempt to lose some weight over the past few months. The real focus has been to eat and live in a more healthy way — not just lose weight. The noble thought would be that if I focused on being more healthy, then the pounds, or lubs — as I affectionately refer to them — would melt off over the course of about six months. Uh…nope. And I’m not going to point any fingers at anyone but myself for this pseudo attempt to gain back a body I haven’t seen in the mirror for about 15 years. Time flies when you’re stuffing your pie hole. Ahem…

    But you also know that I have been exercising fairly diligently. Not as much as I could, mind you, because well, I dunno why. I sit in front of this thing all day talking to you? Because I have that food blog and I cook food that isn’t always conducive to anything but making sure our taste buds are extremely happy. That would mean our waistbands aren’t. Happy.

    You would think I’d give myself a break. You know, like since I’m exercising, eat more intelligently. Sheesh. Not. I’ve decided I need some kind of an electronic device that is strapped to an appendage somewhere — you know, kind of like Lindsay Lohan’s anklet. My device would be a talking device. It would let me know — in a very perky voice (NOT Rachael Ray, well, okay, Rachael) — that as I burned calories, I had earned particular types of food I might woolf down enjoy later.

    Okay, so imagine with me a sec:

    I’m walking: Sweat, huff…..trudge, trudge, trudge…I wonder how far I’ve gone? Puff…huff. Ugh….I can’t stand this…oof…

    Calorie monitoring device:

    You have burned enough calories to earn one charbroiled Porterhouse smothered in carmelized onions and sauteed portobellos finished with a port wine reduction…

    You have burned enough calories to earn a slice of a decadent boca negra served in a pool of raspberry coulis and topped with a mascarpone cream…

    You only have to burn 12,000 more calories to make up for what you ate yesterday…

    If you walk for the next two weeks straight, you’ll only put a dent in the calories you consumed eating that biscuit glace aux noisettes yesterday and the day before…

    Okay, so maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But I have been exercising. You know I’ve been challenging myself and struggling a bit to overcome some internal squeamishness about swimming in the ocean. But I thought I’d show you the route we took this past Sunday, and the one we’ll be taking again tomorrow. Mind you, we’ve also been getting up at 5:30 to do pool laps for 30 minutes in between the ocean gigs.

    Our Swimming Route

    It’s pretty far, isn’t it? When my friends said we’d be swimming to The Shores, I thought, Uh, I don’t think so. I figured I’d swim out part way with them, and then turn back by myself and wait. There was much discussion at dinner Saturday night about where cars would be parked, what time we’d arrive, who would pick up whom, and all kinds of other nonsense. The truly tough part is remembering the next day what we decided to do. Thank goodness the MoH is always tuned in and is able to steer me in the right direction. He sets the alarm, and he confirms what I vaguely remember about the previous night’s conversation. The MoH doesn’t drink wine like the rest of us.

    So two of us finally pick up the third who has her car parked at The Shores. The three of us travel back to The Cove and make a big production about realizing that all we could take with us was our largesse and our fins. We even had to figure out where to hide the car key. No cell phones, no camera, no bathing suit cover up…..Ugh. That meant we had to walk by people sitting on patios of some very chic restaurants enjoying Sunday breakfast. Thank goodness it was still very early — 8:15 — and that my fins are quite large. I strategically held them so that they’d dangle in front of my upper thighs, and then averted my gaze away from the touristy on lookers. We walked quickly toward The Cove.

    The water was a teeth jarring 66 degrees.

    The water was much calmer than the last time we went out. Less sea grass. I don’t want to discuss the kelp. The way it crawls along your legs as you pass over it. I know. I said I wasn’t going to talk about it. I get used to the water temperature fairly quickly, so that isn’t horrible. What’s creepy about the whole thing is that you can’t see the bottom once you really get out there. And if you think about that submarine canyon beneath, the one that sends absolutely frigid upwellings you have to swim through, gasping in surprise…the one that’s about 40 feet deep near shore and reaches depths of more than 900 ft. about a mile off the beach. That one. Totally and completely creepy. When images of creatures from the deep and very large fish with sharp teeth arise, we don’t say anything about them aloud. We talk about “stuff” — anything to ease the nerves. And we paddle faster.About half way across, my friend whose car was parked at The Shores realized that she hadn’t brought the key.

    Where is the key?

    So the rest of the swim was spent organizing for effort on how to get back to the car at The Cove.

    Swim back? Uh….Nope.

    Walk back? In our swim suits with all that traffic? People commenting about it not being whale-watching season. Uh-uh.

    Okay, then. How about a couple of unanswered collect calls to the MoH from a pay phone. You gotta love Caller ID.

    But finally, the Life Guard came to our rescue with a trusty cell. The huzbinks arrived not quite on a white charger (because we had caused a detour from their golf date–scuzethehellouttaus) and took us back to the car at The Cove. The swim had taken an hour. With wiggly legs and swaddled derriers in damp cover-ups, we walked to a coffee place and snarfed down three breakfast burritos and lattes.

    I can’t figure out why in hell I even bothered to go to the salon last week. At this rate, I’ll be back to square one Hag-ette status in a couple of weeks.

    But will I have a great tan? Hell no. The sun doesn’t shine at this time of the year in Paradise. Are you kidding? It’s all a big lie.

  • Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

    Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

     

    I survived the salon. I was described as “glowing” by Marco and Jocelyn — before the big equipment rolled out. It must be those hot flashes I endure nightly. People are beginning to notice. I must be singed around the edges or something. Crispy crunchy. It most certainly can’t be my personality, which isn’t exactly electric. Magnetic? Hmmm… Nevertheless, they were glad to see my money —the MoH’s cash —my plastic that the MoH pays for me again. And that’s the RT in the photo. I just wanted to see your jaw drop onto your keyboard.

    No matter how much I try to get the lovely people at the salon to understand that I don’t care what they do with my hair, they’re fairly conservative. I beg for layers. For dark hair. For sassy. But I get, “Blonde works best for your grey areas because it blends as it grows out.” What they’re most likely worried about is whether I have lawyers ready to slap a suit on them for ruining my hair. Paradise, remember? Like a good client — well, except for that 10-month lapse — I give in to their suggestions every time knowing that they really don’t want me to look like Pepe le Pieu. I tell them, “Short is okay.” But I get layers that only I notice. Conservative ones. They must know how much I’m damaged by having to wear underwear on my head when I was little. They must know how much I like hair that goes where it is supposed to go. And they totally understand that I have to have a pony. They probably figured out a long time ago that I’m fairly high maintenance even though I love to suggest that I’m not. Might I lobby for being discriminating instead?

    It was a relaxing catch up session, and a leisurely perusing of Fast Company magazine — my attention captured by an article on Travis Knight, the man who will inherit Nike, and another about Al Gore’s $100 million makeover. I should have been looking at a magazine with humongous photos, because I didn’t have my glasses. But I’m a great masochist — especially with an audience, so why not act like I can see the page? The fact that my arm was extended as far as it could possibly reach most likely gave away my sham, but the ordeal kept me occupied during waiting time between coloring, and accelerating. Shampooing and massaging. Cutting and blow drying. Ironing and trimming. It was a serious challenge to yank the magazine in each time a stylist dashed by to greet a new client. Or cruised by to check on someone’s foils. And if they hadn’t moved me from the spot where I was braising under the hood, my extended arm most likely would have been the cause of one client hitting the deck. The one who caused the whole salon to freeze.

    For about four seconds.

    Then Marco whispered to me that it was only Mary, a mature client who usually arrives for her appointments loaded on OxyContin. Do drop in, Mary! Unfortunate, actually. The salon used to offer red or white wine in addition to hot herbal tea or mineral water, but can you imagine Mary imbibing? Evidently, there was some concern about clients oozing out of their chairs and on to the floor in mid cut. It was thought that might not be good for business to have clients in Paradise laying on the floor with their drawers showing.

    I can’t imagine why not.

    So what do you think?

    Real New Do Is it better than this?

    Before the Cut

    I hope so.

    And you should feel quite special, because it was a bit damp outside this morning on my walk, and damp and my hair don’t exactly mix. I was a veritable fuzzball by the time I got back home. A poodle. An urchin. I had to fix it up again. Just for you. There.

    I’m thinking Keira can have her gorgeousness. I can muster up some glam myself — sans the battery operated fan, of course. Because it would mess up my hair. Not quite Grace in the Fabulous Fifties, and no, not Shelly in the Esoteric Eighties.

    Glam Four Just me, in the…um… ah…well, now. Oh-tees? Whatever.

    So Tah-Dah. Aren’t you glad that’s over? And just in time for Friday. The sky is completely gorgeous today, a soft breeze is ruffling the trees, and an amazing 76 degrees is helping things along — including the eau de dog whiz wafting through the window.

    I’ll have to find somewhere to swish my hair tonight.

     

     

    Somewhere other than this room and for someone other than PhotoBooth. I’m thining the MoH is elected, lucky dude.
    See what happens when you drop out of society? It’s all down hill from here. But with great hair.

    Kind of like dying with your boots on.

    Okay, perhaps not.

  • Salon today, gone tomorrow.

    Salon today, gone tomorrow.

    Okay. Let’s hunker down and discuss the really important things in life. Like hair. Think about it. Why else would someone have come up with the concept of a “Bad Hair Day?”

    I’ve taken it to new levels.

    I guess it’s time to confess that I was given a lovely head of hair. Goodness knows, I grow enough of it that I should donate it to others who are in need. My two nieces did a few years ago. They had their ponies cut off and donated them to Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces to disadvantaged kids suffering from medical problems that cause long term hair loss. A rather noble and unselfish gesture — and their idea — for girls so young.

    No one would want my pony. It’s rather scraggly right now, as I’ve developed the habit of washing my hair at night and then getting into bed with it wet. By the morning, it’s dry, and I haphazardly run a brush through it and wrap a band around it before heading downstairs and out for my walk like I did today. This isn’t a habit I’ve developed since becoming a house potato. I started it years ago because the whole idea of taking a shower each morning, and washing my hair before leaving for work at 6:15 was just too much to imagine taking on.

    I have a thatch of hair. It’s not straight, and not curly. A bit like me. Every hair dresser I’ve had has commented on the amount of hair I have, like it’s something wonderful. Try drying it when it belongs to you. Try making it behave. Try getting it to lay smoothly when it’s humid, or fall silkily to your shoulders when that’s the thing one is supposed to do with one’s hair. It has a mind of its own. Like me. It used to be blonde when I was young. White, actually. And the more time I spent in the sun, the lighter it became. It was incredibly long, also. If I remember correctly, my first hair cut took place when I was eight years old. I begged and begged to be rid of the braids my hair was woven into daily. I wanted short hair. I wanted curly hair. I wanted brown hair. I wanted someone else’s hair. Hair that people didn’t stare at and reach out to touch.

    When we had to ready ourselves for church or a special occasion, out came the pink plastic and foam curlers. My mother locked them into my hair before going to bed, and just to make sure they stayed in place during the night, she’d pull a clean pair of cotton panties over my head. You do have an idea of how ridiculous this looked the next morning, don’t you, with twisted ropes of hair dangling from the panty leg holes, each sporting a pink curler in some stage of unbound glory. The very difficult thing about the roller business was that when unwound, the resulting curls were not exactly alike. One sausage ringlet was bent in the middle. Or after my hair was a bit shorter, one side of the upward flip would be lower than the other. Or one side of the page boy lacked a perfect face hugging scallop. Heaven forbid if one side flipped and the other flopped. They were never symmetrical. I hated them. I felt that everyone would notice. Such vanity for someone not wanting people to notice her.

    Clearly, that is not my problem now. Well, I thought not.

    Today, I’m finally cashing in on the gift certificate I was graciously given at Christmas. I’m going to the hair salon. The salon I frequented for four years every six to eight weeks. The salon where my two lovely guys still toil and gossip. The guys I haven’t seen since last August. I can imagine they’re going to either not recognize me at all, or stop dead in their tracks and shriek with horror when they see my rat nest hair. Marco will wonder just how many shades of color it is. And Mark? I can’t imagine. Something along the lines of, “What were you thinking?” as he dares to lift one of my gnarled tresses. But I have my strategy planned. “Going grey,” I’ll glibly reply, and we’ll all laugh as the heavy equipment is rolled from the back room for my three-hour appointment. Yes, I have a lot of hair.

    And how will it end up? I’m not sure because I haven’t ignored it to this length for more than 13 years. I’ve wondered a bit, about what it could look like even though I’ve become quite fond of winding it up in a comb or pushing it behind my ears.

    This cut is cute, but I’d have to iron and fix it with my wiggly hair wanting to go everywhere. Why would I want to fix my hair? If I fixed my hair, it would make my face look badly. If I took the time to put on makeup, I’d have to think about my clothes. It’s an unfortunate sequence of events, if you ask me.

    I like the color of this cut, but would probably not be able to put up with the sultry tufts hanging over my poutiness while I’m blogging. Or cleaning the toilets.

    This one is cute, but I’ve had my hair cut this way quite often over the years since I was 16 — except not purple. A purple cow is coming to mind about now. I’d need a bell for my neck.  Moooooo….

    I could leave it long and have it layered like this, Total Hair but I’d need a face transplant to go with it. And a battery operated fan to roll in front of me where ever I wander.

    Or sign up for reincarnation.

    But I completely have to avoid helmet hair. It could never be me — or anyone else, for that matter. Do they take it off at night? And where do you hang it after it’s washed?
    I’m tempted to do this, since my face is oval and the hair style police say it’s a good cut for me.

    But this, or even this is more likely because the body police say that even though short would look great with my face, I need substance on my head to balance out my curves on the remaining 99% of my body.

    So I will have to apply my makeup carefully today, and bring some order to my hair in much the same way one might clean one’s house before the maid arrives. I will have to find a pair of cute capris, and a summery top. Put my chin in the air and proceed with an air of I’m so comfortable doing this…

    Or, I could wear a bag over my head and save myself some time.

    It would be a challenge to get down the hill, however.