You can’t help it. “Oh Ta,” you ask, “I love your cats as much as the next Topaz & Drusy Groupie – by the way, we’re totally having a Groupie Weekend with matching t-shirts and koi cupcakes because We Heart teh Little Black Catses! – but you’re three for three. What gives?”
About the little things I may never shut my elegant trap, but about big stuff I’m more circumspect. A few weeks ago, a sports medicine doctor stared at my X-rays and went a little pale. On the one hand, I was wildly relieved that whatever was causing my cross-eyed complaining was visible on film. On the other, I wish my problems had been a little more camera-shy. The stupefying outcome of this appointment: apparently, I haven’t been complaining enough.
I know. I didn’t see that coming.
Pete and I took stock of our situation and did what anyone would do: we went shopping. We obsessively scoured the intertoobz for stationary bicycles and non-skid footwear for yoga and pilates. Then we went out and sat on a score of stationary bikes and finally we bought one, which turned out to be the cheapest one we saw anywhere. I bought two pair of new sneakers with sturdy treads, and that was good news for little black cats who fit perfectly into boxes the size of two of my shoes.
Exercise has always been the answer. I’m going to need non-skid yoga gloves.