This is my new haven:



A couple weeks ago I decided that the time was ripe to buy a treadmill. Nick had already seen to the purchase of a super-nice elliptical trainer earlier this year in deference to my knees, but after a nasty case of shin splints following a walk outdoors in April, I realized the need for some impact-exercise in my repertoire. Nick spent an entire Saturday organizing the area to be just what the doctor ordered for both of us.

My head is very full right now and I am feeling very overwhelmed. I have developed a thudding ache where I had all of my surgery in 2006/2007. I can't escape it. My nerves are waking back up after a nice long rest…but I so dearly miss that numb spot right now. I suppose I am a little nervous that it could be something more, too.

I can't get this dumb frog out of my throat. I "ahem" until my voice is raw but the crud just won't leave. I have an appointment with Allergy in a couple weeks to see if my sinuses are the culprit. It has been a rotten allergy season for me anyway, but maybe something else is up. I am supposed to be off all antihistamines until my 6/11 appointment, so the next two weeks should be a peach.

I have been feeling dually stressed out with school and work, and mainly because work seems to be in a tizzy lately. I can handle the challenge of full time school, but not when I can't empty my head from work at the end of the day. The home gym offers a nice alternative to sharing a pitcher of beer during happy hour.

There are many things I like about the basement. I like the coolness of the area, the separateness from the rest of the house, and the privacy. Oh Lord!—the privacy! SO much nicer than a gym! I always get ready for a workout being all wussy and all "it's so cold!" but then I start going and I'm being steamed alive in my sweats. At the gym, I just had to live with it. Here? I strip. Mid-stride on the treadmill. It's a talent.

I came up from kickboxing on Saturday in nothing but some sweaty underthings. Nick nearly swallowed his tongue before demanding to know what happened to my clothing. Maybe I'm a closet nudist? But then, that's rather oxymoronic, isn't it?