03 February 2003 - 10:55 p.m.

From many worth reading, some more perspectives on Columbia, and on grieving, from:

Sars
Two entries by Mer
Malraux, whose post prompted me to look up the Asian-American astronauts he mentioned
Chris Corrigan

Yesterday was consumed by two church services, work, correspondence, an extended nap, and dinner at Market Street with the Beautiful Young Man. Today, a workout, a grocery run, more work, and another afternoon nap. Both naps were not quite voluntary - I have enough to do that I would have preferred to charge on ahead, but my body was pretty insistent that it wasn't going to let my brain function until I let it recover from last week's overtime (i.e. all that post-midnight hamster-wheeling it likes to engage in instead of letting me sleep. Never mind the recent slew of bad dreams. Memo to brain: I was ready to leave high school long before graduation; there is really no need to make me relive any of it).

I'm not really complaining, of course - it's nice having a schedule that allows for naps, and the actual napping is pretty cozy. Part of me can't help wishing my brain would time its spin cycles more conveniently (I know I've lost at least two lines of passable poetry because I was too fuddled to reach for the pencil and paper I keep just out of reach of the cat), but so it goes. The effort to get more sleep seems to be paying off, in any case: it was rather nice to arrive for warm-ups yesterday morning and realize, as other people compared their colds, that I actually wasn't sick. (I still sound pathetic, which is to expected when one's been under the weather for two months, but goodness, it's nice to have my lungs back.)

Mer recently mentioned in passing that she now has a moisturizing ritual. This is something I never really managed with any sort of regularity until last year, since I don't generally care for the cool, clammy feel of lotion and usually felt like getting dressed and/or getting into bed right away and/or continuing reading, rather than going through the contortions necessary to coat myself properly. Occasionally I'd slap on some Vaseline on my elbows and calves and ankles when they seemed especially scaly.

There's a number of reasons I'm more diligent now (albeit still erratic). The most compelling one is that living with forced-air heating again dries out my skin to the extent that, if I neglect it, it itches until it hurts. The most indulgent one is that I splurged on some Lancome creams both at a Schilpol duty-free shop and in Chicago last year, and I like basking in both the actual perfume and the memories of travel.

And the loopiest one, perhaps, is because I keep remembering this story every time I think of skipping the Olay or the Anew (thanks again, Baf - good stuff, that). As I've confessed here before, I accept motivation wherever I manage to lock onto it: apparently I'm not sufficiently goaded by the fear that I'll lose my looks, but it seems I can't stand the thought of being such a wimp when those women made do with Crisco.

Speaking of things to do before I sleep, I need to get back to painting envelopes. Take care, y'all.

Apropos of nothing in particular, but it had me laughing in appreciation:

"I rate them based on a general idea of the feel of breasts at different ages." - MT Fierce

One year ago: "Lonie Paxton. . .flapping his arms and legs snow-angel style with celebratory abandon."