pleasant surprises

It doesn't surprise people that I was a gymnast and dancer for most of my life.  I have a gymnast's short, thick build.  You can tell that I had muscle definition once.  My thumbs by default fold in slightly when I walk, and I do that thing walking downhill where my toes point outward and the ball of my foot hits pavement first, which weirds people out.

The person it does catch off guard is me.  Every so often I remember that I once was a ball of energetic artistry.  I chose to remember today.

The last several days I have felt myself plummeting into a frequency of sporadic depression.  The PWD kind (previous posts on which I have not tagged --denial--).  Somewhere between half-watching that masterpiece of theater and screenplay, Vertical Limit, while reading yet more horribly depressing articles about the aftermath of Osama, I decided that enough was enough.

So today, I dove whole-heartedly into protein assays and the first sections of my next manuscript, came home and paid homage to my Once Self.

I pumped the Reggae and broke out one of the hip hop warm-up routines that I used to teach to intermediates.  On the treadmill.  Win.