I was better at it back then.
Now the words—the witty observation, the deft turn of phrase, the uncontrollable obsession with series of three—flood up from the calm, restful back of my brain and SLAM into my fronto-cortex (yes, proper name), then slowly pool into a lake of something that looks like this:
Hey, how's it goin'. Pretty good? Yeah, can't complain. Oh, the sun came out for a sec. Did you see that? No? Huh, musta blinked or something. Are you craving Skittles? Am I asleep right now?
Some days you feel equipped to put fingers to keyboard, and those days are never. So as you watch the ass of your muse disappear over the horizon, there's only one thing to do—don four layers of clothes, lace up your tennis shoes, leash up the dog, and run. No, not to anywhere. You want to end up where you started. And there should be lots of wheezing and sweating and cursing and tears.
Don't you feel better now?
Neither do I. Exercise is for the criminally insane. No if you are me, and you'd like to find your center, I recommend Rearranging Something. Rearranging Something has been proven to lift your mood and brighten your day while allowing you to entertain your OCD in the privacy of your own home.
BEHOLD: the new Woodside kitchen.
Oh, but wait. First you must fix yourself a hobo dinner.
Then, BEHOLD: kitchen etc.
The first order of business was putting the pretty dishes where they can be seen, and reserving cupboard space for ugly things like loaves of bread and old boxes of raisins and four (yes, four) containers of powdered sugar because who ever remembers they have that on hand?
Most of these pieces are mismatched or in odd numbers because I've collected them along the way, but that's what makes the look kicky and not-precious.
Or like I'm running a discount store.
I used to keep my spices above the oven, but the amount of heat that produces seemed to tax their shelf life, so I pulled them out and replaced them with something that doesn't give a rip about the extreme temperatures.
The spices went on the counter by the prep area, where they're most needed.
My kitchen sort of rocks, in its original 1950s splendor. Unfortunately, the cabinet doors are now crummy wood replacements, but the metal insides remain, and each one bears this label.
I obey it implicitly (it's very polite), but I must note that my kitchen has never saved me step nor time nor money.
In a final sacrifice to the throes of randomness, I pulled out an Anthropologie tablecloth I'd had yet to find a place for and used it as a runner on the bar.
I haven't decided if it makes the statement I want to make. I don't know, what do you think? Does it say "Isn't my liquor pretty?" to you?
Thus ends my public service announcement. Remember, people: Exercise kills. Moving something that was in one place into another, completely different place is all the pointless effort you need.