Peking Blue

Rufus Wainwright is playing at Centennial Hall on August 29. Sadly I am not super excited about going to see him and have yet to purchase tickets. But I should go. But how could he compare to our dreamy Hawksley? I can't imagine anyone coming close to his performance last year. Doesn't it make you just want to talk nonsense for hours? I mean, the guy was super silly. Oh, what I would do to be a wee bit of his entourage.

Sock knitting has been suspended at the bottom of the heel for shaping until I can get my hands on one of my Knit Club sisters. So no new pictures. The fugly wrap is growing ever so slowly. I would really like to start another Manos toque, so perhaps that is what I will do to cheer up my knitting.

Aerobics was particularly trying today as I had unwisely scarfed down a bowl of chocolate fudge crackle ice cream following a fairly large creamy omelette. This would make anyone queasy and add to it a generous dollop of humidity, and I was careening towards an unhealthy vortex. The instructor decided of all days to take a boot camp approach to the routine, and I made it through barely twenty minutes before I waved my arms around insanely, and she made the entire group (for my benefit) take a slow walk around and breathe. The older women clucked and shook their heads when I admitted, more for an excuse, that I had eaten ice cream prior to the workout. Who knows? Maybe I just can't hack boot camp. I long for some more yoga step - perhaps at a retirement home. I am a sad excuse for a thirtysomething.

Safe trip, T.