After a full day to absorb it, no, I still can't help feeling like I've lost a family member in Robin Williams. I think no celebrity death has affected me like this since I was an adolescent and John Lennon was murdered. I may not be howling like I did that night, but I have shed far more than one tear, and I'm still slightly sick at my stomach. Pictures and video of him have covered my television and internet for more than 24 hours, and in every single image, I look back and all I can see in his vulnerable face is the sadness that never left his eyes, even during his manic comedy. I can't see a single smile reaching all the way to his eyes, and that makes it that much worse. I can only hope in death he has found the peace and self-acceptance he never seemed to have in life.
I pushed myself today, and I'm glad I did. After today, I have one visit left with Bones, and I don't expect to see him again after that unless I have a fall or an accident (which I'd prefer to skip, thank you very much). I did more exercises, with heavier weights and higher intensities than I have been doing this round. He was more aggressive with me as well, but his efforts gained me more flexibility than I've had in years. Funny, if you always tuck your legs to one side when you sit on the floor, you tend to stick that way. Maybe generations of mothers were correct after all. But he pushed and twisted and worked out some of the kinks. Now I'm sore, and every time I stand up to clean house, I make it about five minutes before I find myself sitting down again for a little break. I think I'm finally to the point where I can step it up and get back into a more serious weight lifting routine again. I took the last 10 months off, because of everything that happened. I consider it a promising sign that I'm starting to think fondly of the gym, instead of shuddering at the idea of setting foot in that torture chamber again.
Maybe a month ago, one of our closest friends from college remarked that the rains where he lives now are nothing like the violent, dramatic storms of the Rocky Mountains. He's on the opposite coast from me, but I have to agree with him. Most of the storms that come through here are quiet (if often heavy and windy), compared to the electrical storms that would light up Boulder when we lived there (and assumably still do). Tonight was an exception to that rule. Just past full dark, the flashes started, and my giant kitty boy took off for a dark cubby hole somewhere the lightning couldn't see him. They were close and they were loud, and they came one on top of another. I paused my noise-making machine, turned off most of the lights, and listened to the fury of the storm as it rolled over. My skin felt like it was floating off my body every time the ions in the air buzzed in time to the flashes. I probably should have moved away from the windows, like they say to do, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I tried to get a picture of Athena staring outside, or of the round-eyed look of alarm on her face, but as soon as she saw me move my hands, she jumped under my chin to be comforted. I couldn't help but wonder what it will be like, the first time (or the first fifty times) a storm rolls over the top of the bus, with all of us on it, much closer to the sounds of the rain on the metal roof. The cats are going to poo themselves. But if they don't, that storm is going to be a hell of an exciting experience.
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