I’m beginning to think I might fit the profile of a hoarder. These boxes were stashed in various bathroom drawers. There isn’t anything inside any of them. Completely empty.
I’d like to blame some of this foolishness on Studly Doright. And that’s exactly what I’ll do. Brilliant.
“Studly, you got some ‘splaining to do!”
Good riddance to empty boxes.
Concise and true. Read more at alotfromlydia.wordpress.com
Our great Cap’n Bonespurs wants a parade
The Pentagon is to use taxes paid
What a fresh new idea!
Like Russia and North Korea
This is how dictators are made
___________________________
<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/bewildered/”>Bewildered</a>
Several weeks ago I posted about Stretching Your Life, a business owned and operated by kinesiologists in Tallahassee. As a 61-year-old I’d become dissatisfied with feeling like a 91-year-old, while my mind kept insisting I’m only 40-something. The disconnect was driving me nuts. I’d even sold my motorcycle because it was exceedingly painful to put my leg over the seat.
One of Studly Doright’s golf buddies referred me to Stretching for Life and I’ve had two sessions of intense one-to-one stretching along with three group stretching sessions. In addition, Jen, the kinesiologist with whom I work most closely, thought I’d benefit from A.R.P. therapy at a chiropractic office in town.
A.R.P. therapy (which I’ve also heard referred to as A.R.T. and A.R.C.) is akin to STIM therapy, in that small padded electrodes are attached to the body and emit a series of electrical impulses that cause the muscles to contract and relax. But A.R.P. is much more intense, the padded electrodes are larger, and the patient is physically active during the therapy.
I almost cried at my first visit, not because it was painful, but because I could feel the muscles in my thighs and hips letting go of their normal clinched and pinched state. I could lift my knee and simulate throwing my leg over a motorcycle seat–something I haven’t been able to do in over a year.
Now after three A.R.P. therapy sessions I’m moving much better, and the chiropractor is ready to turn me back over to Jen. The secret is to keep stretching and try to gain even more flexibility in the process. Who knows, maybe my body and mind can meet somewhere in the middle!
Peace, people!
Today wasn’t a very exciting purge, and it’s not going to free up much space in my closet; however, I’m not sure why I was hanging onto these seven shopping bags:
It’s not as if I was going to use them as gift bags. That would just be tacky. Right?
Back when I worked full time I sometimes carried my lunch in one of the small shopping bags, but I no longer have to do that. And while in the past I’ve used such bags to tote a change of clothes to the gym, I own a perfectly good gym bag. So these bags are going into the recycling bin unless someone can give me a good reason to hang onto them.
Peace, people!
So far in this minimalist journey I’ve had little difficulty in finding items to relegate to the donation bin, and day 6 was no challenge. As per the rules I had to rid myself of six items, thus I give you a sextet of scarves.
I went through a brief scarf wearing period, which was quickly abandoned when I went through my more devastating hot flash period. Ten minutes with a scarf draped around my neck sends my internal temperatures skyrocketing, so the scarves were relegated to a bin in my closet where they’ve languished for at least four years.
There are still more scarves in the bin; those pictured above were just the easiest to part with since the others were gifts from special people in my life and one belonged to my mom. That one might be exempt. Maybe day six wasn’t as easy I first thought.
Peace, people.
Such power in these words. Read more by Robert Okaji at robertokaji.com.
If We Burn
What flares instead to replace our
privileged nights? And which
assemblage of words could reorder these
deaths into comprehension,
change I can’t breathe from epitaph
to actuated plea for help?
Are words ever enough?
Can we stack our indifference and fear
into a mile-high pyre, and torching it
watch them rise to nothingness,
disappearing through the clouds
into the streaming light of cold, dark stars?
Raise your hands and sing. Blow softly
upon the ember. Inhale and recall.
Do you still feel? Will you breathe?
Every fire needs oxygen.
* * *
“If We Burn” first appeared on this blog in December, 2014. It’s also included in my chapbook, If Your Matter Could Reform.
Five items for day 5:
Odds and ends–a dot to dot book, a deviled egg dish, an art book, a bottle for oils, and a cosmetics bag. The only thing these items have in common is that they must go.
I’m always baffled by the items I’ve thought worthy of purchasing. That egg dish is ugly beyond imagining, but it was on clearance. The oils bottle might’ve been a gift. I’m fairly certain I bought the art book at a thrift shop, along with the cosmetics bag. I have nary a clue about the dot to dot book. Truly, a mind boggler.
I’m feeling lighter by the day.
Peace, people!
Arts and crafts are not my thing, but for some reason there are a great many doodads and thingamajigs scattered about Doright Manor that would be found in one’s local crafts store. Since today is day four of the minimalist challenge and I had exactly four rolls of ribbon, I thought it the perfect day to rid myself of them.
Four rolls of ribbon that I’ve never used, but that are not brand new. Hence, I believe I might’ve purchased these at a garage sale thinking that I’d create something cute or use them to make a gift prettier. Instead, they’ve crouched, hidden among all my other lonely arts and crafts items, waiting with baited breath for me to notice them. Alas, they were relegated to a spot in my home where cobwebs dwell.
Goodbye ribbon. May you go to a good home where you’ll serve some greater purpose.
Peace, people.
Have you ever looked at your spouse and thought, “What the hell?” Maybe he or she has done something so out of character that you are briefly taken aback. Perhaps they’ve said something that makes you question your entire relationship.
Several years ago Studly Doright and I were seated at a booth in a restaurant in Champaign, Illinois. When the waiter took our drink order, Studly said, “I’ll have a gin and tonic.”
I almost fell out of my chair. You see, Studly rarely drinks, and when he does, he drinks beer. I felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Who was this guy sitting across from me and what had he done with my Studly? I was as close to having an out of body experience as I’ve ever been.
When our drinks arrived at the table I watched carefully as he took one sip, then another. Studly was actually drinking a gin and tonic. What other secrets was he keeping?
The gin and tonic period lasted roughly one summer. I bought limes and good gin and became a regular little bartender. Then abruptly Studly ended his affair with the drink and I watched the limes shrivel. Life was back to normal. I was the drinker and Studly was the sober one.
So for several years now, there have been no surprises. Until today, when I opened up a shopping bag from a local department store and discovered this:
A purple shirt. Studly, my guy who sticks to blacks and grays and greens, bought a purple shirt. Again, I feel like I’m in The Twilight Zone. What’s next? Will he begin reading the classics? Will he start quoting Shakespeare? I’m shaken to my core. God help us.
Peace, people.
None of these things is just like the others.
A ball of twine, an empty souvenir cup, and a fake flower are leaving my life today. I believe the cup and the flower have been taking up space at Doright Manor for four years, having come into my possession on an anniversary trip to the beach.
As for the ball of twine, I haven’t a clue. Had I planned on tying Studly Doright up for sexy shenanigans? Was I going to truss a turkey? It’s a mystery that I doubt will ever be solved.
Some things are better left to the imagination.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 