This Fish Needs A Bicycle

measures of comfort

I popped Shakira's Donde estan los ladrones into my Discman and hit the gym with Trip. There were no three consecutive eight-minute miles last night, but still had to give myself an A for effort. And another one for having remembered all the words to the album.

At home, I got in touch with a long, hot shower, and my inner gourmet. Fed, I went to catch an hour of Benson and Stabler, but instead found that Blow was on. One bloody nose at a restaurant and I thought, "Well, this certainly isn't going to end happily" and shut it off.

While Kitten played sneak attack (I'm wearing the battle wounds this morning), I dug out J's old pajamas. I'm a good six inches shorter than J and so his fleece-lined pants cover my feet and drag on the floor -- even when rolled twice at the waist. The comfort is both sentimental and real.

I put the pjs on and crawled into bed with some contact sheets and a Viggo-featured magazine (thanks!). The contact sheets were, for the most part, ignored. My 9 AM meeting will go less smoothly, but in the battle between work and Mr. Mortenson... well, there are very clear winners.