I really needed to write today. As I looked forward to the weekend, I was trying to figure out the best way to have a big swath of time for working on a new chapter and a couple articles. The intentions were there. But I didn’t write a lick.
I set the alarm to go to the gym and burn off some calories from the copious amounts of cheese I’ve been eating. I’ve been on a cheese tear. But I doubt my half-assed spree on the elliptical machine really did much to counteract all that high-fat, creamy deliciousness. Still, I wanted to feel at least a little sweat and burn before heading off to my three-hour cooking course.
The class I took was wonderful—fun, educating and relaxed. I made and ate my first sole meunière—pictures to follow. Class was supposed to end at 1:30 but we lingered until well after 2 and after that, I was supposed to come home and write. Instead I pretended I was sick.
As the hours wore on, I felt more and more tired, and I couldn’t find the motivation or energy to do a thing. I also started feeling sorry for myself—that I haven’t been on one date in nearly seven months and that I’m condemned to be alone for the rest of my life. But that’s another story. Between the fatigue and the pity party, I knew there was only one thing to do: park it on the couch. It was a shame to waste a beautiful day in Paris—I can’t remember the last time I was on the couch during daylight hours—but, thanks to the latest episodes of Glee that Mitchell sent (if you have not seen this show yet, you must! Amazing!) and a spot of chocolate, of course, I found myself cured of the blues.