Mon amies, bonjour. J’ecrive mon lettre dans l’cusine avec mon mari, et le file ete dormir in the sitting room, and that is about as much French as I can recall in my exhausted state. Little man has decided again that early mornings are preferable, and I am killed all over again. Added to the wonderful person who decided that the best place to fly a large plane was over my house at 5.30am and I am actually not going to put myself behind the wheel of a car any time today. I’m in that tired state when if you close your eyes you automatically start dreaming. I don’t mean sleep, I mean you go straight to dreaming, so that when you are woken again you have to recollect that that you are the jowl faced old wan you are, rather than the lion tamer worried about the butter cream melting. Yeah. I don’t know what it means either.
So, it is another Sunday. I’ve kept up with the writing and we have nicely broken the ten thousand mark. I am seeing the pace slow down, however, as I get better at the writing, rather than just the typing. You can see the seasons as the sky gets colder at that hour, and the moon shines high, and bright, over the insanity of walking across a dark campus at 6.00. I am loving it much much more than the swimming, but ironically the writing is much harder on the body than the exercise. At the end of one of the early morning sessions, I find myself easing myself out of the chair like a hostage without the ropes. Each limb has to be painfully stretched out, sloooowly, to get the blood back in there, and to remind myself that there is a life outside of these women, we’re done with them for now.
It is an amazing moment, though. It is a weird transition, going from the dark night, to reinventing myself as a worker in an office. It is like shaking off dust sheets while I try to convince others I’m kosher and above board. Trust me!
Right. It’s Sunday, and I need to cosplay as an adult. Wishing you all a grand day.