My hands are often so cold that they get painfully numb. I go to sleep with them stuffed into the sleeves of my hoodie. (Yes, I wear a hoodie over my flannel nightgown to bed, along with an alpaca wool hat and socks.) It doesn't help that the dry winter air and frequent handwashing and dish washing are causing painful fissures in my fingertips. Moisturizing is often futile because greasy fingers can't use a cell phone or tap the keyboard. Even the "liquid skin" is only moderately helpful because while it is a sealant, it is also extremely drying.
I skipped the gym yesterday to spend a few hours in the yard, snipping tendrils off the downed branches that litter both the front and back yards. It was a good day for yard work since the sun was out. The fallen branches are entwined with Oriental Bittersweet, which means thick vines with ladder-like protruding branches that catch everything. It's impossible to load any of the debris into the wheelbarrow until it's trimmed into relatively "straight" segments bereft of grabby fingers. At least I managed to clear the storm drain. At this point, I'm thinking I should buy my own wood chipper.
At the gym, I toy with the idea of doing 10 minutes on the step machine until I see Barbie chatting with Ken. She's on the Stepper and he's alongside on a different gliding running simulator. (I don't fit into that machine either--I've tried but my arms are too short and the machine's not very adjustable.) I didn't see the Bob Paris wannabe today. He's usually noticeable because of all the loud grunting, probably to impress the attractive (and taller than him) brunette who appears to be his girlfriend. Admittedly, he does have a really good build but there's no need for all the noise.
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| For those of us who remember, this was Bob Paris |
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