Growing up, in my family's living room, the space between the coffee table and the sliding glass doors was usually reserved as a dumping place for laundry. The laundry would pile up into hills and then create mountains before anyone would even attempt folding the clothes.
A love seat sat lonely in the corner. Under its cushion you would find individual socks that had lost their mates during the laundering process. I always felt sad for those socks-- starting out on a journey with their pal and ending up smooshed and forgotten underneath a cushion.
But when the space was clear of laundry, I would lie on the floor, on my side and start running around in circles. I may have started out twirling standing up-- getting a legal kiddy high. Possibly after tumbling over one too many times, I devised a plan to run while lying down.
In those days my parents had wall-to-wall red, brown and green shag carpeting. My mother like it if only because it didn't show dirt. That meant infrequent vacuuming. If you hit the carpet when the light streamed into the room, plumes of dust would rise in the air. I was told once these were dead fairies-- probably by my sister. Our living room was the place where all fairies came to die.
While on the ground running in circles, the shag would heat up spots on my arm that would eventually turn to blisters. But it didn't matter because running was something I enjoyed-- if only in circles in the living room. Get me outside and I would sit under a tree and read a book.
