I don't even know why I have hair. The one thing that can make me gag is finding a long strand of hair not attached to a scalp. And don't even get me started on shower drains. Ugh, FOR REALS it grosses me the freak out. The frick out. The fudge out.
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.