A New Electric Car
In case you haven’t seen it yet, here’s yet another entry into the electric car industry:
Why Couch Potatoes Have Happy Watches
I didn’t notice the rug burn on my knee until I was ready for bed. Hmmm.
Couch potatoes don’t have these issues.
Couch Potatoes Don’t Have Those
I have old scars on my knees from that cruel and ancient practice of requiring girls to wear dresses to school. I may still be bitter about that rule.
This elementary girl couldn’t stop running and somehow my feet didn’t cooperate all the time. Crash. Another scraped knee. Another scar.
Couch potatoes don’t have those.
My high school hosted a girls’ football game to raise funds for something that I’ve forgotten. We played flag football. No tackling. Just powder puff style.
I remember running with the football tucked under my arm and getting hit so hard that my breath flew away as I hit the ground. I fumbled the ball too. So much for the flag.
I could barely walk at school the next day, what with the sore muscles and bruises.
Speaking of barely walking, I was tossed over the head of my horse one weekend when I was home from college. Gypsy was galloping, and I asked her to slow down. She stopped. Dime kind of stop.
And I went over her head. I was nineteen, but I walked around like a ninety-year-old for a few days.
As an adult, I mellowed into more gentle sports. Like softball. Cycling. Skiing.
Speaking of Softball
Photo by Brandon Mowinkel on Unsplash
Speaking of softball, I once found my left foot trapped under the fence behind home plate. As the catcher, I had to retrieve any balls that got past me and went to the fence. I knew the opponent was steaming home from third base, so I hustled to the fence, planted my foot, and went under.
It took both coaches and an umpire to lift the stiff fence off my ankle. My team didn’t have another catcher, so I limped back to my position.
Couch potatoes don’t have to put up with that.
Memories of softball games came up recently over lunch with a friend. She perked up. She’d played softball, too.
“Do you still have your softball glove?”
“Of course. You?”
We planned to play catch just because we miss throwing a ball around. Feeling a little nostalgic and unfulfilled, maybe.
Couch potatoes don’t get those urges.
I was five months pregnant, downhill skis strapped to my feet and our four-year-old sitting on the chairlift seat beside me, when the lift died.
We had hoped for one more run down the slope. Instead, we hung for an hour before the crew started lowering people to the ground on ropes. I never told them I was pregnant. I didn’t have time for the panic.
Couch potatoes don’t have to swing on a chairlift with a little boy for an hour, keeping him calm and warm.
Why do I complicate my life so?
The Watch Panic
Recently I crawled inside an enclosed cage retrieving young roosters. I had to roll onto my side to turn around so I could crawl out. No problem. I dropped onto an elbow, scotched around, and headed for the cage door.
And I heard a wild beeping. Was someone calling me?
I glanced at my watch, affectionately called “Dick Tracy” by my sister. Well, maybe not affectionately, now that I think about it. My watch sometimes poaches calls from my phone, which she thinks is goofy.
This watch plays music, tracks my steps, and alerts me to texts and calls. It ought to cook meals too.
Back to my story. My watch was shrieking, gaining volume with the second. Almost the shaking in terror. I looked closer. It hovered over the 9-1-1 call, assuming I had fallen. I punched a button. No, I didn’t need 9-1-1.
My watch was stubborn. Was I sure I hadn’t fallen? Yeah, pretty sure.
Can you imagine explaining that to the deputies who would have had to respond? No, officer, really, I’m fine. I just planted my elbow in the rooster pen.
Yeah, rooster pen.
My watch panicked last winter when I had to knock the ice out of a rubber pan so I could put out more water for my ducks. I slammed the pan on the frozen ground and my watch immediately leaped to alert mode, ready to call the deputies again.
“I didn’t fall,” I told the Dick Tracy. “I didn’t even leave my feet.” So why I was talking to my watch? My sister hadn’t even called.
Couch potatoes don’t have these problems.
New Plan
I have a new plan for this year. I’m slowing down. It’s time.
But I have to run a 5K with my grandson. It’s his first and he’s only nine. How could I refuse?
I’m riding my bike five or six—OK, sometimes ten miles a day—because it’s a new bike and I have a new helmet. Can’t let those go to waste.
I’ve started lifting weights, too, to keep the kids happy. And those extra muscles handle the feed bags a lot better.
So you can see that I’ve slowed down. No more skinned knees or planted elbows.
My watch doesn’t hover in ready mode anymore. It probably thinks I’ve retired into couch potato mode.
Well, yeah, I did shut off its fall alarm.
Out of concern for the deputies.
How to Handle Bugs and Relatives
How to Write a Haiku Simply
How to Handle a Tiny Business
My sister and I own a small business together. It’s so small we have one employee and she’s not an employee but a subcontractor. We’re that small.
But we want to act like a routine business, so we take our subcontractor out to lunch once in a while. Makes us feel like employers.
We met at a small Italian restaurant with an atmosphere. Brown pottery. Checked tablecloth and sparkling goblets. Earthy colors on the walls. Paintings of ships and canals. A large wine rack of reds and whites.
Soft jazz floated through the room. What a great place for lunch.
We settled around a square table, leaving an empty chair to my left.
Between bites of bruschetta and baked ziti, we exchanged stories about our families and the latest news—maybe gossip—of our town.
Finally, the lunch ended. We were stuffed as stuffed as the ravioli and even resisted tiramisu.
We kept chatting, waiting for the waiter to bring our bill. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the padded check sleeve lying on the table beside me. A soft brown binder to conceal the bill. Classy.
How did I miss the waiter? Obviously, the conversation had been too rich to see the bill arrive.
So I picked up the folder. “Here. You’ll probably need this.” I handed the sleeve to my sister because she always pays these bills.
This is what regular businesses do, right? Delegate to the appropriate branch. She was the credit card bearer.
She didn’t take the folder. Instead, she stared at me with a look that I interpreted to mean, “Oh, no, I forgot the credit card in the car.”
I figured I’d be gracious, so I smiled, giving her time to get up and get that credit card. I’m pretty patient that way. We’d met to act like a big-time business, so a little professional courtesy was in order. Even to my sister.
Well, professional courtesy had nothing to do with the bill. Her look had nothing to do with a forgotten credit card, either.
She said, “Why are you handing me the wine list?”
It wasn’t her who had forgotten how to handle a business lunch. It was me.
Just a Dollar….Or So
