I don’t consider people old until they are at least 100.  Having said that, I think I have the circulation of an old lady.

While my hands are always warm and sometimes even hot, my feet are blocks of ice that come in two colours:  purple and gray.  Gray is more of a shade, but never mind.

Now, I collect socks.  But it’s very rare to see me wearing any of my collection.  I will sometimes make exceptions, and wear my Mona-Lisa-with-red-nails socks, and stars-and-moons socks.

It has to be really cold before I put them on.  I did so last week, before curling up with The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest.  I like the idea of socks better than wearing them.  I call socks prison for feet.  But in the Fall it’s a cozy prison.  Socks belong in the Fall, along with childhood memories of apple picking, and sticking cinnamon and cloves into an orange and calling it a turkey.  Or maybe that was just me.

I know my feet go from purple to gray and back because I walk 90% less than other people who walk.  And that’s OK.  That isn’t my issue.  I am perfectly OK with using other methods to get the blood flowing down to my toes.

Swimming is good. I used to swim twice a week when I was a kid. You’d think I’d remember how to actually swim. But the only thing I remember about pool days was seeing my name in lights the year I had my birthday party at the pool where I took lessons.

As an adult, I do make an effort to make swimming second nature again.  Every year, ‘Swim More’ is on my list of New Year’s Resolutions.  ‘Swim More’ is listed directly above ‘Go to the gym’.   I’m very good at it for three or four weeks at which point I’ve been known to say, ’Fuck it, my life is the gym.’

And the last time I implemented The Great Swim Plan, my friend and I would go via the park, only to be seduced by ice cream van ice cream.  Maybe we made it to the pool.  Maybe we didn’t.

I remember one day we ventured out into the rain to make the trip to the pool, which was very much indoors.

We passed our favourite Mexican restaurant and went and had enchiladas and margaritas instead. That night was also worthy of note because we carried the left-overs home in the rain.  Wrapped in kitchen foil, of course. But without paper plates underneath the kitchen foil. That made for a few memories.

Suffice to say I don’t go well with scheduled exercise. Maybe because I had PT three times a week from the ages of one to sixteen.  I knew what my “angles” were from a very young age and until I was seven thought everyone was taught how to fall. As I’ve said before, that is a skill that has served me well.

As I got older, I fell with less grace. One afternoon, during a PT session, I leaned back on the table, missed the edge, and screwdrivered into the floor. I went home with a possible concussion and a definite rug burn on my head.

It was around that time I was given ‘stretches to do at home.’  One of them involved lying on my back with one leg up on the door frame and the other through the door.  I still do that one.  It’s a good way to check for leaks in the ceiling.

I’ve also have remedial massages.  While they are sometimes crunchy, I mostly get to zone out for an hour in the name of ‘maintenance’.  It’s great.

Haven’t had any sessions since I moved.  And I feel it.  I’m not the only one.  Yesterday Sarge said, ‘Your feet are cold.’  And I had an idea.  ‘Rub them?’ I asked.  ‘Trade you a back rub,’ I said.

I used to have a massage therapist.  And now I have a boyfriend who barters.

Good deal.

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