Flutes, ski hills, and the sex lives of lizards

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What a day.

It started innocently enough, with the Saturday morning show on CBC Radio One, a cup of tea, and a slice of buttered sourdough bread with marmalade.

Then  I set foot outside the house, and all hell broke loose.

One unfortunate fact of modern life is that there’s a vast assortment of interesting things to do but limited time in which to do them.  As someone who could be variously described as a scanner (term coined by Barbara Sher), Renaissance woman, polymath, multipotentialite (per Emilie Wapnick), or an outright dilettante, this is a big problem for me.  On the way to Friday night’s Astronomy Society meeting I tried to purchase a trumpet, for crying out loud.

Today was even stranger.  I had three hours of band practice this morning, first on flute and then on alto sax.  Then I went home and returned a phone call from an old high school friend  (waves to Alfred).  Then it was time for a cross-country ski lesson, with today’s feature topic “How to go down a hill, actually stop at the bottom, and then get back up the hill.”  (The last time I tried skiing down a hill I had no clue, and ended up taking the skis off and walking back up.)

After a ten-minute layover back at the house to drop off the ski gear and change clothes, I was out the door again.  My penultimate stop was a Saturday evening meeting of the local Humanist Association, and a talk about sexual attraction in animals.  Finally I sought refuge in a book store with a coffee shop, sagged into a chair with food and drink, and meditated on the joys of sleeping in late on Sunday morning.

I mean it.  Really.  I have nothing scheduled for tomorr —

— Oh, heck.  I have to go out to load my bus pass.

And pick up a few sewing notions.

But after I’ve done that, I intend to do some quality Nothing for a change.





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