As the supply starts to get a bit low, I tend to look at good days with particular affection and gratitude. Here’s a beauty.
On the road last week and again next. But wonderful, free weekend…fine Sunday.
Slept late, after a good meal Saturday night with pals at a favorite restaurant. The Sunday Times has been at the door since six. Get that, make coffee… get some berries and granola. Hilly comes in… half asleep… looking amazing as always. One of a million, undeserved breaks. Chat, do the puzzle… plan the day. The plan? Do nothing.
Actually, we pull ourselves together and go to a 10:30 Spin Class at Flywheel. The place is jammed… over sixty people. Mostly women in their thirties. Fit, into it and attractive. I promise myself not to go nuts but can’t help it.
I am the oldest person in the room by a factor of three. There are walkers or monitors who look out for people in trouble. When I walk in, they light up like Christmas. I get off at one point to get ear plugs. A monitor rushes over. When I come back she tries to physically help me onto the bike… poor old fellow. I snarl at her: Go away! Later, she apologizes to Hilary; “I didn’t mean to insult your father.” Hilary says not to worry, it’s all his fault, he’s a grump. She is sweet, as always. But ends: He’s not my father, by the way he’s my husband. The poor girl is speechless. It is only with great effort that I do not tell her that the electronic score card in the spin room shows that I was “The third strongest girl.” So crazy about myself. As always.
Outside, we take off the wet, bottom layer… go to the Frick Museum for a terrific exhibit of small bronzes. Manageable crowds in this, one of the most intimate, important museums in the world. Then on to super lunch at another good bistro. Home to sit up to neck in deep tub for a while… fool with email. Pull self together, go to pal’s house for the SUPERBOWL. Life is sweet. A little short, to be sure, but awfully, awfully sweet.
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