Tomorrow's "workout" will be a matter of lifting weights and wrestling with machines. But instead of doing this at the gym, the weights will be buckets of soapy water (alternately clean and grungy) for the rented carpet cleaning machine.
Vacuuming the living room as prelude turned out to be more of a time-consuming job than anticipated, because it meant pulling out the bookshelves. And pulling out the bookshelves meant taking out the books. And taking out the books meant actually looking at them. Which ultimately meant facing the fact that I have never, and will likely never read some of them. A few smallish stacks now sit on the floor, destined for a couple people who will value them more than I; the rest are destined for the library, the Salvation Army, Goodwill, or wherever.
And I find myself a bit chagrinned by old ambitions of and pretentions to scholarship. (Not that I'm knocking scholarship, mind you; I'll take non-fiction over fiction at least 90% of the time.) But I flatter myself that I'm a bit wiser for realizing that information that's never retrieved is a waste of space--be it shelf space or drive space.
