The party was good. Conversation flowed like the fine wine we quaffed, and I didn’t even need to mention yoga. I woke up with a matted tangle of hair on the back of my head rivaling the teasing in Olivia Newton-John’s mane after she went all bad-Sandy: “Tell me about it, stud.”
And my head still hurts, and it’s almost 5 pm. Which means, like I said, party was good.
I helped a friend move yesterday, and holy shit, I am tired. Moving is grueling work! And, actually, she had movers, two guys in their twenties who showed up with a ginormous old-school blue van and orchestrated the heavy lifting and couch maneuvering. (Despite my numerous talents, I have never been good at spatial relations, and the way they managed to get a table through a doorway, or a couch into an elevator, failed not to amaze me.)
When L. and I met the fellows, they mentioned, I believe rather cavalierly, that she had brought along her “strongest friend.” Not being one who wants to seem weak or too girly to hustle, too focused on my mani-pedi to get down and possibly dirty, that brought out my competitive nature. I was determined to prove them right—I am, indeed, L.’s strongest friend!
