The Writing

11 September, 2012

fate

I decided to try a standing desk at the beginning of summer. Built it myself (well, assembled, really) out of an old shelf and a pair of yoga blocks. I have a wicked* stool for sitting and reading text, but for typing, surfing, etc., I must stand.

This has been good, mostly, for my sacrum and my elbows. It's also easier to move around and walk away and do all that stretching crap you're supposed to do for good ergonomic health.

I can't write fiction this way, but a couple hours on my ass a day (hahaha, so optimistic!) won't hurt me. Also, I've achieved functional word processing on the iPad, so I have more mobility in my choices of where and when to write, and the option to do it without an 8lb metal (hot!) laptop.

But I am tempted to lapse. I have this totally awesome big black captain's chair that fits my butt just perfectly and I love it and... Louhi has claimed it. Apparently it is the perfect size for small cats. I think the pair of shawls draped over the top help in its appeal. And the fact that she is, on that seat, sleeping higher than all the other cats.

If I am foolish enough to move her, or sit down when she's gone off to torment some unfortunate insect, I have to hear about it when she gets back. Whining. Mrrping. Attempts to climb up into my lap which inevitably end with a disgusted mrow and jumping down. Lather, rinse, repeat, until I give up and move.

So yes. I guess I'm standing.

*wicked, because the shaft separates rather easily from the seat. If the seat isn't on squarely--or if you sit on it a little off-kilter--it can come off the shaft. This means that your body weight is coming down a) onto nothing at all, straight to the floor or b) onto a rather sharpish circle of metal on or near delicate parts of oneself. I have been bruised by both options.