I have a love/hate relationship with exercise.
Actually, it's more of an intellectual-understanding-of-the-benefits/hate relationship with exercise. I keep trying to find some kind of physical activity I adore and well, I can't. So I've been running. Which I don't hate. I don't love it, either, but at this point, that's good enough.
At the beginning of February, I bribed myself and said if I ran 10 miles on the treadmill at the gym by the end of the month, I could go out and buy Knitting Vintage Socks by Nancy Bush, which I've been looking at, on and off, pretty much ever since it was published.
It was close, but I made it, with a mile and a half to spare because it felt really good once I hit 1.5 miles.
I've been having some interesting internal dialogues about motivation and whether, at my age, I should need a bribe to do something which is good for me, and makes me feel better and blah, blah, blah, blah.
To my internal voice, I say this: Shut up. I ran 10 miles in February. And now I'm going to go read my new book.
I jokingly said to the Fool that I planned to run for spending money at Maryland Sheep and Wool. It would be a good system, because unless I start running marathon-length distances (no chance of that), I'd probably be able to earn myself a skein of sock yarn and a bar of handmade soap.
In other news, I finished a pair of socks this week. They're from one of the Trekking yarns, and in the Piers and Waves pattern from the Little Box of Socks. They went to my friend Susan, and a good thing they did, too, because it snowed today.
Rachel called this afternoon to report that she has gotten to the very end of her first sock. I'll show her how to kitchener tomorrow night. Here she is after the gig we had together Thursday night, waving her sock around in a parking lot. She said she's already thinking about the next one.
And finally, Jamie's mobility has increased to the point that the Fool and I packaged up all the yarn not in immediate use (i.e. attached to a pair of knitting needles) and packed it back into the baskets, for an eventual trip downstairs. It was getting a little hairy; every time I turned around, the kid had fished another ball of yarn out. This morning, he ate part of a Mountain Colors sock yarn label. We can't have that, so into the ziplocs it went.