So, I returned to an old friend last night.
Many moons ago, as I discussed here on this here JournaBlog, I was addicted to Zumba, this crazy, energy-filled dance aerobics things that sweetly took over my life. It was fun and rewarding and I could see the benefits. Then, around last August, I kind of put it on the back burner for a while. My knees were killing me, for one thing, and to be quite honest, the high wore off. I decided to go back to good, old-fashioned walking as my preferred method of exercise.
However, after some deliberation and the necessity to throw some variety in my activities, I decided to go back to Zumba last night.
It was painful.
After the first few routines, I wanted to stop, pick up the water bottle, and go home. Nevertheless, despite pulling back on some of the subsequent routines, I stuck it out and thoroughly enjoyed it. It also helped that two good friends of mine were also there, suffering right alongside me.
This morning, as I descended down the stairs, I ouched the entire way down.
But I’m going back on Wednesday.
I finally got my art fill this past weekend, and it was oh, so good.
Me, my Bros, and our family friend took a trip downtown to the National Gallery of Art on Saturday afternoon and took our time going from exhibit room to exhibit room, hallway to hallway, here and there. We mused and discussed paintings and sculptures; I played amateur tour guide and, mostly against their will, waxed on and on about archetypes and meaning and depth. It.was.awesome. So happy I was finally able to get down there and take it all in.
Photos and captions, coming in a few…
It can’t be that hard creating a fictional town, is it? Why am I stressing over a place that doesn’t exist? I am simply placing it on the map and pretending it’s there. Why am I pulling my hair out over a fake location?
Needless to say–I am in the middle of building my novel. Creating the background, the places, the people, the story. It’s fun and crazed all at the same time. Woo hoo!
(The importance of research became quite clear when I took a Fiction Writing workshop during the college days. I wrote a story about a wronged wife who hires a hitman to, you know, get rid of the husband. Total anger issues back then, but onwards. So the first draft was slammed by my fellow writers. Questions abounded–how did she find the hitman? Where did he come from? What are the divorce laws in state they lived in, since I had an entire courtroom/divorce proceedings scene? On and on and on…long story short, my professor suggested that I incorporate research into my routine as a writer. I’ve been googling ever since).
Seriously, why am I stressing over this town?!
I frequently have this thought during my commute to work on the Metro. It flashes in my mind from time to time, especially when the Metro car lurches forward like some insane, evil roller coaster ride and I keep myself from eliciting a tiny scream (I’ve learned to gasp internally). If anything were to happen–if someone next to me decided to lose their mind, or something infinitely more dramatic and worse–who would save me? Who would pull me away from the drama (I have the slowest, worst reflexes) or push me behind them as they take on Mr. Or Mrs. Or Ms. Suddenly Decided to Lose Their Mind?
Ok, so I’m no damsel. I don’t need to be saved, per se. But in a situation like that, I do wonder from where or whom the heroism will come. Or whether I’ll be the hero? But to be plain and honest, it helps when I see a tall, strapping guy in the corner or a woman in camouflage. Anyway…
I’ve been at my latest job for a little over a year now and I’m still learning. The learning curve in this place is nothing short of mind-blowing. No complaints, really; learning new things has never been a problem in principle for me. But when it comes to execution, yikes and watch out. Some things can be executed easily with training. For other things, it’s back to the 6th grade and my inability to write a cursive “R.” (I still struggle. Still!) In other words, it’s not easy (and my colleague training me, usually a nice person, has the tendency to turn into my exasperated 6th grade teacher, who was always seconds from wringing my little neck). I say all the latter because I actually accomplished a fairly complex task today! First try! Lesson learned: take copious notes. All the naysayers that giggled at my inability to calm down on the generous note-taking are probably lost in confusion somewhere, wondering what that one, short, brief sentence actually means. Viva numerous bullets!
Day 2 of Intention to Begin Novel: I’m still planning on getting started. First up, some handy notes on plot, character, those necessary details that need to be documented.
This weekend: the museum! I’m going to the National Gallery of Art and will come back bearing photos.
Viva numerous bullets!
It’s early August (summer lasted about three minutes), yes, but I’m looking forward to October. I signed up for a 5K! I know! Me!
It’s always been something I wanted to try, so now I’m trying it. Lest someone attempts to picture me running through trails and bounding across creeks like a Nike commercial, I’m doing a 5K walk. Walking is good and fun and is not running, which suits me just fine. I have nothing against running or runners, but here are some reasons why I stay away from it like a plate of brussel sprouts (here come the bullets; how I’ve missed my bullets!):
- My poor, old knees. Seriously, I have the knees of all four of the Golden Girls. I heart Bea Arthur, by the way.
- It hurts.
- I’m a Girl, and, well, there are things that I currently own that don’t like that kind of sustained movement. This is intentionally vague, but quite clear to me and likely the one pair of eyes that reads this thing.
- It really hurts! I mean, I can walk from here to Timbuktu without much of a wince or a complaint (well, ok, no, but I’m pretty good at the walking thing, with the right pair of shoes). But running? No.
- (Side note: I could work up to it. Make it a personal goal? To enjoy running?)
- (Nah, never mind).
Anywho, October, woo hoo.
In other news, I’ve decided to stop waiting for whatever it was I was waiting for and hunker down and write my novel. What was I waiting for, really? Time, likely. Time to stop and grant me its attention, forcing the other necessities in my life to wait until the novel was written and finished. Yeah. Since that didn’t and won’t happen, I need to get on the ball. This novel, the idea, has been resting in my mind for years. Ironically, all the waiting I was doing? The title of my book is…Waiting.
Onwards! No more excuses!
(I’m a walking paradox–I haven’t had a concrete idea for a short story, yet this novel idea sits inside this head, cushioned, nice and comfortable. It likes air conditioning, too, just like yours truly).