The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was run through the apartment opening windows and doors to let the smell of sunshine in. Then I washed everything laundromat-cleanable in the house except for the kitchen floormat (which I think is machine-washable, but... I'll try that later). Then I grabbed my notebook and sat in the grass at Piers Park drinking coconut juice and noticing how translucently pale my legs have gone.
Last time I did that I was sitting in Salamanca Square in Hobart, marveling at the unfamiliar daystar, eating berries, unwinding my frazzled, work-stressed, burnt-out self with the help of many friends in Australia and New Zealand. This time it had a deeper sort of patina. Now that there isn't a ton of immediate-event stress-tension to release, it's more of a gradual unfolding, pulling out things I've ignored or pushed back or been oblivious to for years.
Such as my shoulders actually becoming slightly mobile (I think I'm going to have to go for a massage to get them to be any better at the moment). Such as discovering the section in the Boston Public Library with books on hearing loss and kids and education, and being shocked, riffling through a few of them, to find that I had to actually stick my non-book-holding hand in my pocket to keep it from further stabbing a middle finger in its direction, and that it took a few seconds to realize that I was quietly chanting "Oh, f--- you" under my breath. (I know the folks who wrote them were trying to help kids, and that they probably did a lot of good for them, and that those books aren't talking about me per se, but... but... they are. Why do I still have such violent trigger points for this?) Such as catching myself eating something when I wasn't hungry, and realizing that some of my food choices are actually habits I dislike and wouldn't do if I was aware of what I was eating all the time (new rule: no reading non-food-related things while eating), and looking for ways to give away my remaining Easy Mac.
Got back to the laundromat ("laundrymat," the doorway sign says) in time to pull a soft, warm, fuzzy yellow blanket from the dryer; it felt like being hugged by millions of chicks at once, except less ticklish than I'd imagine that sensation to be.
Happy 83rd birthday to my Guama (my grandma on my mom's side). It sounds like everyone is having fun in Seattle (unless you're all still in Canada). I wish I were there. Extended families rock.