I am firmly ensconced in my summer routine. Mornings I have my coffee and write a little and go to the gym and/or go to the supermarket and/or do some housework. By 11/12/1 I head out to the pool and stay for a 2/3/4 hours. Sometimes I take a break from the pool for a quick bite to eat for lunch, other times I wait until I come in for the day to eat. If the former is the case, I tend to go out for my evening meal somewhere close by a little later. If the latter is the case, I am famished (though clearly in no danger of starving...ever) when I come in, and nosh at 4 or 5 and call it a day. I read and watch TV and (nosh some more and) write some more and go to bed.
I am happier than a pig in shit.
My interactions with humans are fairly minimal. Of course my parents are home now so I’ve seen them and make it a point to stop by or call, and my sister Mary had a pig roast last weekend and there were 130 people there. I’ve taken Donna to chemo and she and I text during our favorite Food Network shows, and most days I see my friend Ann Marie by the pool and we chat as we wade. But on those nights I take myself out to eat? I go by myself. The nights I stay in and nibble? Just me.
Have I mentioned I am happier than a pig in shit?
Some people I imagine find it troublesome that I can be so reclusive. Others I guess would give an ovary or two to have a similar day, never mind three weeks. Although I guess that doesn’t say much: most women my age are ready to give away their ovaries for nothing in return. But you get the point.
Well today I’m changing it up. Yep. I’m going out with a friend (Amy), to Hartford, to somewhere schmancy. Crazy, right? Oh, yeah, But I’m not done. Get this: I dried my hair with a blowdryer and I’m wearing it down. There was even a curling iron involved. I haven’t done that since June 5 when I celebrated my birthday in Boston. Indeed I’m “steppin’ out.”
And I’m still happier than a pig in shit.