For the last three days, I've failed at my self-imposed project to blog every day for threeweeks, but life is kicking my ass at the moment. It's in fact particularly hectic today - must get the last few things done so this damn website can be launched - but I need a break.

So.

Talking to rydra_wong yesterday, I was thinking about doing good (or sensible) things for the wrong (or strange) reasons. For instance, arm lifts - okay, I've not tried doing them yet, but I have less issues about lifting weights up in the air, above my face, than I do about doing press-up type exercises to strengthen my arms. At the moment, it's partly due to my right wrist (I have this thing that Doctor Internetz says may be a ganglian cyst, I need to get it looked at, it's not bad but it makes it less than fun trying to support my weight in Downward Dog), but really, I've always hated doing press-up type exercises, so that's just a convenient excuse.

Lifting weight above my head appeals far more to me, and that's not entirely unrelated to reading... Jane Austen? Georgette Heyer? one of those, when I was a teenager, and coming across instances of the Regency belles holding their arms up above their heads before entering the room, so the blood drained from their hands, leaving them pale and smooth. I used to copy the idea. Every now and then, the mood overtakes me again (not all the time; I'm not crazy!), and I stick my arms in the air. Not usually when other people are around, though. And, hey, the technique got me a brief hand modelling gig for SMA, so apparently it works. *g*

Another thing I do for a weird reason is give blood. Yes, yes, it's good to do, people need it, etc... You want to know why I do it? Robin Hood.

I was crazy about Robin Hood when I was younger. I wanted to be in his gang, and maybe to be his Marion, but not one of those girly Marions in a silly dress that got in the way, oh no. I wanted to be an expert with the bow and arrow, and I wanted a sword and a dagger and one of those green and brown outfits, and I wanted to be able to disappear like magic into the trees. Maybe I wanted to be Robin; it kind of depended on whether or not I liked boys that week. But anyway, in one of the most common versions of Robin's death, he's ill and goes to visit his cousin, an Abbess. She's secretly evil and in league with the Sheriff, though, and she persuades Robin that he needs to have some blood let. He falls asleep during the bloodletting, and she leaves him draining, until he's at death's door. Then Little John - who'd found out about the plot, somehow - breaks in, and Robin, dying in his arms, shoots one final arrow out of the window, hitting the Sheriff of Nottingham again. Where it landed, that's where he was buried.

Anyhow, it's very difficult to pretend to be Robin Hood on his deathbed when there are cheery nurses talking to you, trying to make sure you don't fall asleep, pass out, have a fit, etc. Nurses are so pragmatic.

Surely I'm not the only one who does this sort of thing...?