I'd planned to be serious and contemplative and say something marginally insightful or interesting regarding the mess that is the legal fight surrounding Terri Schiavo, but then I managed to splatter chocolate yogurt down most of my bare leg, and most of my thought processes got devoted to whether or not I actually had the flexibility to lick most of it off.I thought about doing it, and then I realized that I've apparently inhaled WAY too much cat fur, because no sane human would ever admit to thinking such a thing. So I just reached down and scooped it off with a finger.

Hey, my leg was clean -- but, I think, the post is pretty much lost to the ether.

We'll get back to the flexibility issue after a brief, maundering segue into the realm of the serious.

* * * * *

I have a notebook. Small, spiral. When I go somewhere, it goes too. It has a lot of things in it, mostly mundane: iterations of the ever-changing shopping list and to-do list. Errands I'd like to run. Thoughts. Phone numbers to call. During trips away from home, lists of postcards to send and assortments of new addresses and driving directions tend to pop up.

Were my notebook just comprised of those lists, I'd have no hesitation in letting anyone see the contents. The problem is that there's always a little more in there, and that "little more" is personal enough for me that I just can't share the full contents with anyone else.

Those are my lists of things I want out of my life as my weight loss progresses. Some of them are overarching. Some are little. Some are just dumb. Every one of them represents something intensely personal that I've felt I've lost due to the extra weight I carried.

Upon showing Jody this photo of Tenzing… Jody: "Your cats are sluts." Me: "I know."

Colorado is, after all, a landlocked state. Perhaps I should have considered this before attempting the quest I did on that warm winter day, but then again, sometimes you don't get to pick your quests. Your quests pick you.

I'd realized the shaggy state of my exercise swimsuit while I was in Colorado, and thought that since it was the off-season, I might be able to find a reasonably-priced swimsuit while I was on vacation. This, of course, led to the uttering of the World's Worst Sentence, which I knew better than to say but said anyway:

We tiptoed out, the three of us, on the wrong side of midnight, between the last of the party conversations and the beginning of the out-of-town guests settling in for an abbreviated night's sleep.

Ever tried to climb naked into an unfamiliar hot tub in the dark while mistakenly attempting to preserve some semblance of modesty? Let me reassure you: it's just as difficult as you might think. Still, darkness sometimes breeds bravery, and I tumbled in with the words, "Well, I have two of everything I'm supposed to have two of, and one of everything else, so … screw it."

* * * * *

Every house should have a set of stairs, even if they're decorative, just so that the quiet folk have a secluded spot to retreat to during even the loudest of parties.

This way is as appropriate as any to make the introduction: