Today I clocked thirty minutes on friend Sal's treadmill, followed by a spinach salad. Despite Elspeth's observation that "Mommy, it looks like you're going to have another baby," I feel virtuous. Now, if I can only keep it up. Since most of my non-parenting work requires me to sit at a computer and bury myself in the rapid fire of keys (at least my fingers get some exercise), I must find a way to get my legs moving and my heart rate up--I mean, not by hyperventilating or throwing nervous fits, but by beneficial, orderly exercise. And a steady diet of bonbons. My mother just sent some to Martin for his upcoming birthday and so I had to sample, just to make sure they were good enough for him. They aren't--they're good enough for me, me, me!
I'm working on an essay right now, my first essay in quite a while since I turned my attention to other things, like poetry, newspaper columns, fiction and bonbons. The personal essay is perhaps the trickiest genre for me, and brings up many questions, such as how much artistic license I can take for the sake of coherence and flow, while still at least lurking in the doorway of nonfiction. I think I outwitted the genre this time by braiding reflections about my grandmother with a story based on the legends and tales of my Finnish ancestry, all mashed about in my imagination. It's been a lovely bit of diversion during the last couple days of steady snow and cold that grips my fingers when I work upstairs in our freezing bedrooms. Now, for instance, I am dressed in layers with a blanket wrapped about my shoulders and a warm cup of tea on my desk--and my hands are still as cold as if I'd been storing them in the refrigerator. Ah, the charms of an old, beautiful house.
Friday night. More bonbons in my future, I think. Happy weekend, dearies.
