Fudge. Next topic. Nice transition, Meg! Fudge reminds me of my grammy. She would make fudge and caramel for everyone around Christmas and send them in festive tins. I preferred the caramels over the fudge and I'm sure I still would today if she was still alive and making these treats. But treats? I don't eat treats, right? I don't allow myself the pleasure. Total denial or total indulgence of pleasure: Welcome to America, where we can't not do everything in extreme.
I do want to change this, though -- this denial of almost everything even remotely enjoyable in life. I don't quite understand why I hold such rigid restrictions for myself. Yes, it's the whole desiring-to-be-in-control thing. But there's something else to it as well. I am tempted to say it has something to do with repentance, with purity. If I deny the desires of the senses, I am somehow atoning for sins I most likely never committed. It's a bizarre, deeply ingrained belief. Then again, I might be way off base.
This was going to be a really lighthearted and fun post. OR SO I THOUGHT. Then I sat down and my fingers had a different idea. And now my brain has the idea that it's done for the day. It's almost 5:00 anyway. Quittin' time. Clock out, drive home, puff on a cigar. My brain needs an after-work cigar.
I am gonna give my brain a break (but no cigar, sorry) right now and go on a walk. A walk is like a brain massage. And after the walk my feet will need a massage. After massaging my feet, my tired hands will most likely want a massage of their own. I can't forget about my sore butt and tight calves and tense shoulders. There's a lot of freakin' massaging on my agenda tonight. A lot of frickin' massaging. A lot of fudgin' massaging. Massaging is a form of indulging, right? See -- I'm not hopeless.
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