I'm sitting at my desk watching Bella eat. We lunged her and she did well. She has a preference for one direction over the other and she's improving at going counterclockwise. Her white fur is cooler than her black fur. I can really feel a difference in the white and black when I pet her. It's just like we learned in fourth grade - wear white to reflect sun and black to absorb it. We love to see her run.
I have thank you notes to write.
I have the new routine memorized, but I wanted to have two or three by now. Only have one done. Maybe I can get one of the other two down within two days.
Really need to worsh my hair. I did my toes red last night. I got inspired from reading Miss Paper Mache's resolutions. Another one she has that's unusual and I liked is to buy something for someone else once a month. I think I can swing that. I'm going to try. Whoops. "Do or do not do, there is no try." Okay, I will do it. Starting, starting. . . sometime this month.
Need to rewrite my bio. Not feeling too verily galvanized for it though.
Bella just plopped to the ground for her afternoon power nap. She likes to take a 2pm nappie. She's a horse with a schedule.
The roller rink is closed for assessment for structural defects. This is not good for my Zumba class at all. January is a good time for growth and I had to teach my Thursday class in a the very small studio downtown. Nadine said she'd call me today, but I think she may be off work. She always responds quickly to texts and she hasn't and no one is answering the office phone. I'm in limbo. Limbo. My students are waiting for an email today about where class will be held tomorrow.
For school we read "Spring and Fall: To a Young Child" about mortality.
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.