*cue violins* Today marks one week since I entered this intimate relationship, yet it seems like we’ve been together much longer. How can something outside oneself become part of the very fabric of one’s being in such a short time? Ah, but therein lies the power of microbial persuasion.
To tell you the truth, I feel trapped. Though it’s been a mere seven days, I fear an affiliation this all-consuming can’t possibly be healthy. I can only hope these tenacious talons will soon lose their grip on my soul, not to mention my sinuses. Yes, I’m sure that would be for the best. We’ll go our separate ways. And I’ll breathe easier then . . . *music fades*
Yeah. So, having this crud for a week hasn’t been my idea of super fun. BUT, yesterday. Now that was a cool day. By sheer force of will I completed my usual morning workout (with a few extended periods of just lying on the floor like a slug). Then I took a long, hot shower, which is always a great way to clear the head, even when it’s not stuffed up. And then. In the early afternoon I curled up in the recliner with Blue Like Jazz.
That book sang to me. I read and read and read. George and Jacob went to the store and bought groceries. George prepared dinner: wild Washington salmon (he shuns farm-raised fish), grilled to perfection; broccoli and onions, also grilled until they caramelized a bit on the edges; a tomato-avocado-pecan-salad concoction he invented; applesauce with kiwi and cinnamon and cranberry; and white wine from Croatia (compliments Grace and her European tour).
I took a break from Donald Miller’s dialectic delights to feast on the magnificent meal my true love gave to me. We lingered at the table a while, and I shared several passages from the book with George. Then he perused various publications while I continued reading. I finished the last page around 9:30.
If you haven’t read Blue Like Jazz, do yourself a big favor and buy it today. When I say it’s “dialectic,” I just mean it’s refreshingly logical. It makes sense. And it does so with well-woven stories and a raw authenticity that leaves you satisfied. Almost as satisfied as grilled wild salmon prepared by a true love’s hand.
I don’t wish this croupy crud on anyone. But, if I could, I’d wrap up my Saturday with a ribbon and leave it on your doorstep. With much love. Because right now I feel like I’ve got more than my share.