New home, new habits

Written last night

Dear Ones,

Except for packing boxes, I haven’t exercised since Clark died two months ago. Before, I had this routine — Monday and Friday, classes at the Y; Wednesday, Zumba at the other Y; and on Tuesday and Thursday Zing and I would hike for at least an hour through the sandy hills of Phipps Park.  When people told me all that exercise was good for my health, I would often point to my head and laugh, “Yes, mental health!”  I would also snub my nose and deride exercise machines. “Looks like a torture chamber!” I would sniff. “Not for me!” In our dreams, Clark and I envisioned  Zing and me nosing for miles around midtown Sacramento, returning with juicy tidbits of street life to share with Clark. (Never, never was Clark a walker! He just liked it that I explored on foot.) 

Well, today was a turnaround. No gorgeous woods, no rambling the streets,  no dancing the mambo — Instead, I began the day with repetitions of 30 each to strengthen my thighs (previously disdained as boring — not my thighs — the reps) and in the afternoon I tried out the stationary bike at my condo’s exercise room. I went at 2 p.m., when I figured (rightly) that I’d be alone.  I didn’t care to have anyone see me fumble over how to operate the bike. And the reps — moves recommended by the knee clinic —  I maneuvered in the hotel room, and I can tell you privately that I did not always get to 30 without stopping. 

I want to strengthen my legs to get rid of the knee pain, and this is supposed to do it. Besides that, wow! it might clear my head as well. When I can walk better Zing and I will go exploring. The clinic said it might take four to six weeks.

Today also brought two mildly serendipitous meetings. I crossed paths with Anita, the mail deliverer, as she was sorting envelopes at the condo. She is just the kind of person Clark would love: she’s from Indiana, down by where it meets Kentucky, and fell in love with California while she was in the Air Force here. She’s been delivering mail in midtown Sacramento for about 25 years, so she's an expert on zip code 45814. I’m sure she and Clark could talk forever.

I also stopped at my new home on the twelfth floor, just to claim tenuous ownership again, and as I got off the elevator I saw a man bending over something on the floor outside my door. It was Bill, the contractor, getting ready to leave. He seemed delighted to see me. “I was going to call you over the weekend,” he said, “but it’s better if you see for yourself.” He re-opened the door, and we examined the wood floors, which he is installing meticulously. One minute later and Bill would have been on the down elevator. 

(I love having perfectionists do such work, but … it's taking so long! I can’t wait to move in.)

My friend Joy has been considering what makes “normal.” She said she’s not normal and neither am I, and that’s a good thing. I agree.  Joy wonders if “assimilated” might be closer to what I mean when I say normal.  Yes. I am painfully cutting new grooves and habits into my life. Assimilating.

Love,

K