Page 21 of Hidden Nature

“Don’t rat me out, Mop.” She set the bowl on the floor, watched him gobble up the contents.

She made herself get up, fill an All the Rest water bottle.

“Next on a daily agenda: PT.”

Obviously pleased with the company, Mop went with her to her parents’ exercise/yoga room. Maybe it hurt the pride to pick up two-pound weights instead of twenty, but… Day One.

She sat on the bench and did steady curls until her arms burned. Then did two more. After managing a handful of shoulder presses, she tried a few kickbacks.

She rested, drank water, and did it all again.

“And that’s all I’ve got.”

She wrote it all down. How long she’d walked, how many curls, and so on.

Keeping a record, she decided, added incentive.

When Mop laid his head on her knee, she stroked his head. “We’ll try yoga tomorrow, slow and easy. But I think I’ll stretch out on the couch for bit.

After building up the fire, she closed her eyes.

Maybe she’d do one of Drea’s famous crosswords—exercise for the mind. Even as she thought it, she dropped off.

She woke up with the dog sitting politely, staring at her.

“You need to go out again?” Groggy, she reached for the phone she’d set on the table. “Oh, for God’s sake. I was down for over an hour.”

Pushing up, she took mental inventory. She could handle it. “Give me a minute. It’s time to walk again anyway.”

The wind still kicked, and had pushed the clouds to dim the sun. More snow coming, she thought. She could see people—bright coats against the white—sledding on the east side slope. Smoke streamed out of chimneys. Despite the cold, a pair of kayaks plied the far side of the lake. Someone had built a pretty impressive snowman in front of one of the lakeside houses.

She made it to her first stop, had to rest, breathe, then took the ten steps more to her second stop. She wanted ten more, but stopped at five.

“Know and respect your limits, Sloan.”

If she had to stop twice on the walk back, she still made it.

She sat, recovered, and though she didn’t want it, heated up a little soup. Ate the one more bite.

When it was done, she looked at the dog.

“Now what? It’s barely one in the afternoon. If I lie down, I’ll sleep. If I get a book or try a movie, I’ll end up asleep. And don’t give me that sleep’s healing. I’ve had enough of it.

“Am I really stuck with crossword puzzles?”

She went upstairs, brought down her laptop. She’d make a spreadsheet of her activity, her progress. It would help to see it all laid out. She could even add the times.

Though it burned some, she added sleep into the mix.

There, less equaled progress. At least on her gauge.

She set it up meticulously, and felt organized and accomplished.

And bored beyond the telling of it.

Desperate, she brought up a crossword puzzle on her laptop. Then wandered the house just to stay awake. When wandering, she came across the basket her mother used for her when-in-the-mood knitting or crocheting.

Inspired, Sloan carried it into the living room by the fire, and found a YouTube video teaching the basics of crocheting.

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