The calendar has a way of catching up with me.
It actually takes two tomes - a tiny blue book that stays in my purse and a giant desk version - to help me keep track of the comings and goings of my life.
The squares are full of jerky scribbles denoting civic commitments and social dates, cryptic names and other appointments. Each swift note is a reminder that hopefully I am doing something to better myself or the world around me.
I guess that aspiration would even apply to hair appointments, right?
There are moments when I love putting my coat on and leaving work for something meaningful. Those are the days punctuated by the expected angst of working in a pressure cooker environment. I guess sometimes I'd even be happy to redeem a stressful day by a teeth cleaning.
Other days I reluctantly straighten up my desk and shove in my chair, dragging my feet all the way to the next obligation. I throw the purse over my shoulder and dream of my slippers, a glass of red wine and something fluffy on the boob tube.
I met a psychic earlier this year. He told me I needed to be a bit more selfish in my life - selfish with my time, my money and my heart.
I guess I should be a little bit more guarded, shouldn't I?
Sunday night was a perfect night of selfishness.
I stayed in, sipped on some wine, watched DH and baked a cake.
The whole evening was about as delicious as the cake, which was made of a fluffy, yellow batter laced with lemon rind. I savored that wooden spoon and enjoyed the peace and quiet that comes with a slow night.
OK, I'll admit it: the cake was for a co-worker's birthday.
But the quiet night in was one of the best gifts I gave myself all week.
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