Little things make me gleeful.
The drive in this morning wasn't long enough. I remembered all the best lanes to be in and didn't miss my turn for the street with the ultra-classy underground heated parking lot, and by the time I was shutting off the engine it was only eight-thirty and I wasn't half through my vocalizes.
This morning I finally remembered to grab my practice tape for the car -- evenings this week have been so hectic with climbing and outing that I haven't been getting my reading done let alone cooking anything, cleaning anything, laundry, answering email, breathing, sex, sleep...
Things should quiet down a little now that I'm getting into the swinging, though. Or at least my limits will get pushed a little further, to where I'd like them to be.
The first practice vocalize on the tape is purely ab-work. I barely managed to finish the one scale. Granted, I was sitting, but it was still surprisingly difficult.
THe second vocalize is to open the throat, and I was running out of air halfway through.
The third vocalize is to strengthen the range, and halfway up to that C that I'd been hitting easily the last few months, I ran out of breath and started coughing.
I pulled into my fancy warm parking spot before the breath-control excercise could start.
Knowing full well that I'd been saved by the string of green lights along Lakeshore.
This weekend I have a lesson, and Saturday chances are I'll be up early enough to practice properly for it, or Heather really will be upset with me.
This weekend I also have sewing to do, plants to attempt to revive from two weeks of neglect, reading both of the pleasure and work kind, hopefully groceries and laundry and maybe even dry-cleaning, talking to an accountant about this incorporation business, opening a corporate bank account (or at least starting the process), Adam and Jazz's birthdays...
This weekend will be full to the brimming without the rave, without time for self-pity.
Just the way I like it.