I decided yesterday was the The Day to finish Christmas shopping. I wasn't going to stop until I was done, or until 3:30 p.m., whichever came first. Fortunately for those on my list, those moments coincided and I made it home to pick up the mail before the post office closed at 4:30.
I left the house at 9, and spent an hour and a half driving to and from the nearest semi-city. So I was on my feet for … you do the math.
My kitchen looks like an exploded gift shop, because the only things I removed from the bags were sugar-free coffee creamer and break-and-bake cookies. [No, those aren't gifts; those are necessities! Creamer for me; cookies for Mr. Shrinking Knitter.]
I don't count all that walking-around-looking-for-the-perfect-gift time as intentional activity. I wasn't panting or sweating and the only thing that hurts this morning is my feet, because – sad to say – the expensive Nike athletic trainers I bought in October Just. Don't. Do. It. For me, anyway. Too narrow of a toe box, I think.
The contrast between the kitchen, with shopping bags littering every surface, and the uncluttered living room with the girly-girl tree is amazing. Both say 'Christmas' in their own special ways.
I was home for only an hour and a half before I had to leave again for the art-class gig at the prison. Last night was the fifth of the six-week class. They draw their hands, on a nice background, with shadows and highlights, and they amaze themselves. It's one of my favorite classes of each session.
It should be warm enough here in the Middle of Nowhere to walk outside this afternoon. I could use a good, long walk. Someone is supposed to come between 8 a.m. and noon to install an over-the-air television antenna, so while that's being done I can wrap and package gifts for shipping.
It's December 12. My shopping is done! My cards are mailed! All gifts will be shipped tomorrow! I'm so efficient I scare myself.