All day yesterday I thought I should be doing something special for my valentine. What to do? I already had a fluffy white turtleneck sweater. My new Speedo had arrived, so I took it on its inaugural lap swim. Was that special enough? Since I got home and felt like I had broken my body, I decided no. I am not going to make my three requisite trips to gymlala this week due to eye surgery coming up, so I kind of pushed the workout a little. Then I was so sore, I couldn't think of much else than a hot soak and some aspirin. And today, I am tired from a long night of wrestling with Morpheus, a frequent occupation lately. Before I crapped out and laid down with my current novel for a little siesta, I took a trip to Safeway, and while there, plied the bakery aisles, looking for something bad for me, to soothe my sweet heart. Nothing leaped out at me. Then, as I threw yet another tub of Lite Cool Whip in my cart, there it was. This year, my valentine's name is Sara Lee. Lemon cake. Oh, joy in a yellow box! I had it for lunch, and then, for dessert, too. Do I feel guilty? Is the Pope Catholic? But it is a lovely, soporific kind of guilt. Now for that nap.
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