Every year, the floor was getting a little further away. That is to say, it became harder to go from sitting on the floor to standing again, so I’d avoid getting on the floor unless the cat belly was particularly enticing.

I decided a few months ago to dig my medtitation cushion out of storage, and convert a small patio side table to a floor-desk for my tablet/keyboard, where I do the bulk of my internet time wasting.

Just this morning, I realized that I’m popping up and down with a lot more ease than when I started, so the floor is now officially at a distance it was at maybe 15 years ago.

Edit: This edit might break the rules, but this is the first post I’ve ever made that included the image of the post in the post.

  • Siegfried
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    10 days ago

    Good OP, i used to do this a lot when i was at the uni. I’ll give it a try again.

    Does the mate help with the freezeing to death weather? Asking for a friend

    • schipelblorp@sh.itjust.worksOP
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      10 days ago

      My parents moved far north before they gave birth to me and I had to reverse-engineer a lot of traditions to fabricate an artificial sense of belonging. It was over a 100 degree F yesterday where I was.

      The hottest the water gets is 146 F, so it doesn’t really help too much with the cold. For that, I recommended wool sweaters.

      • Siegfried
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        9 days ago

        In general, the “parana culture” is pretty welcoming when it comes to accepting people from other places At least here in argentina (and i think this may be the same for the rest of us, uruguay, paraguay and southern brazil) it is said that “An Argentine is someone who chooses to be one”… so, there is no artificial sense of belonging here… i have bad news for you, you are one of us.

        • schipelblorp@sh.itjust.worksOP
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          9 days ago

          I’m mostly familiar with the rest of the world mocking Americans for saying they’re “Italian” or “Irish” or whatever country their great-grandparents came from.

          You know that song No Soy De Aqui, Ni Soy de Alla? That’s my life.

          Maybe also the life of Jorge Cafrune, child of Lebanese immigrants.

          I feel kinship with the rootless displaced more than anyone else.