Not All That

Friday night, Steve and I had a good veg roast up, with some added sausages and white wine. We loaded our plates and sloshed up our cups and parked ourselves in front of the TV for some IT Crowd. We laughed. Hard and loud.

Then we went out to the Some Street Softcore Gym (aka the garage) where he checked my squat form [insert lascivious comment], showed me how to do deadlifts and inverted rows. When my feet got too cold, we went inside, threw some punches at each other in the living room, and talked about I could set up a workout routine and how I could then fit it in with the yoga and pilates and skating and snowshoeing.

"Running away from anything much?" Steve asked.

"What? How could I possibly be using hours and hours of physical exercise a week to stop myself from thinking about things I'd rather not think about?" I replied.

"I know, preposterous."

I took another swig of wine and nodded solemnly.

++

I know it's been all doom and gloom and blurry and teary around here lately. I feel a bit bad about that, because my life is certainly not all that.

A long lovely chat with CT yesterday, who is just a gem, and looks all-get-out handsome in his new glasses.

Nice chats over pancakes with Grace and Greg, whom I don't get to see as much as I'd like. Ruby and Fiona threw themselves off the bed at me, and a grand time was had by all.

Met Lesley for coffee and writing today, and though we didn't get much of the latter done, man, if you ever want good encouragement and insight, I suggest hanging out with her. We're going to meet again next week. Same time, same place.

I've been having good yoga classes, very focussed and calm and strong. After a year of doing Ashtanga at the same studio, I am starting to feel grace in my movements, and making friends in my classes. Yasmin was bugging me today to come to the Thursday afternoon class, and Chantal joined in. It's nice.

Shovelling tonight, it was warm, and the moon was bright and the air felt good inside me.

M-C came home from NYC crazy jazzed over meeting Joan Nestle at the Lesbian Herstory Archives. Telling stories of 80 year old butches until I got a swelled chest and teary eyes. And then she, M-C, not Joan Nestle, ate some of the 3 billion pieces of leftover pizza in the fridge and made appropriately appreciative noises.

Now that I've decided to just be single, there is one helluva lot more space in my head and schedule for creative projects.

I baked bread and cooked my own beans. My house smells nice.

And it's February.