My son made me a sewing box in
shop class a few years back. It is
beautiful, solid wood. And it
weighs about forty pounds. (I am a
pretty good estimator of stuff like that.) My ironing board, which I stole fair and square from my
mother, who stole it fair and square from her mother-in-law, is solid, sturdy,
and heavy as sin. I keep my fabric
in plastic tubs on the top shelf of my office closet, which can be reached only
by standing on a lower shelf, twisting around, swearing loudly (that part might be optional, but I wouldn’t know),
and heaving awkwardly.
This is why I work out: so I can be strong and agile enough to
sew.
I am half joking.
I have made the point before and
I will make it again, I am sure. I
never waste a good point. Fitness
is not an end in itself. We work
on fitness so we can do other things we really want to do, whether that is
running through fields of flowers with our beloveds or hauling down the big
mixer to make cookies with our kids.
For the record, I intend to win
the Olympic event of carrying a sewing box around spiral stairs without
whacking too many shins.
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