Anti-Sloth!

My sister sort of harps on this idea of sloth from time to time that I'll paraphrase here:
We all think sloth means being lazy like not working or sleeping a lot, but it means a lot more. There's mental sloth. There's knowing you don't like your job and not trying to change it. Or not telling the friend the thing they should know. Or not finishing that thought you had about why or why not you thought the film was good. Even in your own head.

Perhaps because I am moving and have a forced sense of freedom, or perhaps because I'm out of school for the first time in two decades or just because this season of Breaking Bad has been very good and Dunkin has an iced coffee for 99 cents deal on, but lately I have been doing things I want to do. Case in point--the waterpark on Friday. But there has been so much more. I get bored with sorting papers, so I read. Or I mention wanting to experience The Rainforest Cafe as an adult half-jokingly and Bisque takes me on a date there for volcano cake. At summer camp I love playing Mafia with kiddos, so why not get a bunch of friends together on a Thursday and play, offering up the last beers in the fridge and the Thin Mints I have been saving in my freezer since January of last year. Any day can be a rainy day. In the good way I mean.

He tricked me into seeing Edge of Tomorrow after, but that's okay.

Mafia night in my living room.

It could be easier said than done, but oh well, just try.

Happy Working Song

My sister told me my blog has been too sad. Well, toot. But okay. Some great things about summer camp:

Storm cloud. July 2013. Michigan.

Running the long, quiet road of antique farms just off camp property Monday. Only two girls signed up for an afternoon four-miler. Track stars of course. They smoked me. It was very windy.

My first period Musical Theatre girls kicking their feet to "Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile."

Playing Mafia (I actually love Mafia. Like, a lot. I wish it were still acceptable to casually mention it be played at parties now that I am an adult. Sigh.) in the lake on a very wavy day. Hopping the white caps during accusations.

My campers at the breakfast table every morning. One brings yogurts for all. Another carried cups of water by the bunch. That one always asks for a bowl of Golden Grahams. There is a subtle game of who will get a bagel first--thus becoming the table toaster slave.

And on your lovely woody banks,
we dream beneath the shade,
and offer up again our thanks,
your memories ne'er will fade.