The Piffle Lecture

Hello, I am an exercise fanatic.  Not the marathon, Iron Woman (is that an event?  in this PC age, probably), skinny minny type by any means, but very dedicated to walking or (brief) jogging every day.  My body is very addicted to the pleasant feeling of being well exercised.

The other day, however, I realized I am bored by my usual walks.  I enjoy the feeling of exercise, I enjoy listening to the radio or podcasts or music.  I enjoy taking Jubilee all over SIU campus or through crisscrossing neighborhoods for miles and miles.  But the sameness of years of walking are getting to me.  And I still have a lot of life before me.
I should take up kickboxing.

(There’s no way.)

In my dream world, I would have enough money for a gym membership and a free babysitter to care for  the kid/s.

Seeing as I’m soon to become a Law School Widow, and watch us go from No debt to Lots of debt, this is a distant future.

But, perhaps in 15 years, Jubilee can babysit and Jake will be making enough money that even our large and growing family will not deplete the bank.

This is also assuming that years of walking and pregnancy don’t kill my knees or something, I guess.

Mmmm.  Stair masters.

Oh, an the gym has to be a place attractive to old, non-buff people.  I went to the campus gym once and disliked being surrounded by shiny people with few clothes and bulging muscles.  Let’s all leave our bodies to ourselves, thanks.

Yet another Tuesday has rolled around, and I am again avoiding my drawing homework. Tomorrow is class. Work accomplished since last Wednesday: zero. Colored pencils are all very fun in class, but at home I am uninspired. Perhaps the interruptions break the fragile thread of concentration my poor head attempts. My current project, a leopard, only gets one solid hour of my attention a week, that hour in which I sit beneath the teacher’s stern eye. I’ve already completed a pencil drawing of my 17 month old sister, of which I am absurdly proud.

I’m also supposed to have Through New Eyes read by next Wednesday, and have only read the first chapter. I love it so far, but I didn’t receive my copy till two days ago. And I can’t write in a book while feeding Jubilee. Taking notes is hard when you are the be-all and end-all to a six month old.

There is leftover chile for lunch. The cold remains of a wonderful celebration on Saturday night.

There’s a baby crawling the woodwork. I can hear the cloths tumbling in the dryer. I’ve been trying to get through Augustine’s Confessions during nursing sessions. It isn’t working well. My mind wanders, Jubilee demands my attention, my mind wanders again.

Yesterday evening worship was a report from Pastor Shade on the Augustine Presbytery. The Grandfather attended, as a deacon. Apparently, Ralph Smith never sleeps. And the beer flows. It was fun to hear about, and I don’t think I would like it. Leave the beer to the men. Give me wine.

But it may be a sign I should continue with Augustine’s Confessions.

Also under perusal during breakfast and second-breakfast for the baby, is The House of Seven Gables. I find the rank sentimentalism more than I can bear. I’m having trouble picking it up now, wishing for a glass of cold water (in the book realm) to wash down the sticky syrup of Can-You-Understand-The-Depth-of-This-Character-Yet. Because the characters are really deep, you know, and explaining their passionate innocence or love of beauty again and again makes it so.

The master of the house is on the step, home from work. Time to make dinner.