Celebrating Michelle's 63rd birthday at Los Quates. We always eat in the bar where it's quieter. There's a brace of sculptures that provide refreshing incongruity amidst the traditional New Mexican decor.
I'm watching my weight climb the way I'd always hoped the stock market would. Doing naught but driving from cat-sit to cat-sit now has me at a full 245. I hit 248 last time I was here.
Hefting 6-gallon jugs of water in and out of Phoebe along with loading and unloading the rest of the "gear" each morning and evening combined with a pleasant amble was, in the wilds, enough to keep it from climbing; anything more and it would drop.
But the last two years I've seen a decrease in stamina and a corresponding increase in dimensionality. Now, I console myself that I'm helping Ms. Cook -- her sciatica is getting better -- but there's a corresponding recognition that the urban lifestyle is, for me, just plain deadly....and the women don't even glance anymore.
But then I get all optimistic and think, "Hey, I'm, 67, I probably won't last much longer."
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