This is a very weird predicament, but I feel like I have arthritis in my right index-finger knuckle from all the writing I’ve been doing. It is red and inflamed right now and Husband insisted that I take some Ibuprofen. I hope it helps. I feel like I’m 86 years old.
He is playing the kidney-bean little instrument (also formally known as a charanga) and looking very beautiful right now. I like it when his hair gets like this: a bit too long, standing up in about twenty different directions. It’s sexy.
We went to Fridays at Five last night and I realized that one of the saddest things in the world to me are cover bands composed of men in their late 40s and 50s. That sounds really catty, I know, but I don’t mean it to be. They just make my heart hurt. I want to tell them, very softly and gently, that it’s OK. It’s OK that those jeans don’t fit the way they used to. It’s OK that women are no longer impressed that you can play their favorite country ballad. I told Guion this, and he said, “But at least they’re not trying to feel younger by having affairs against their wives.” I said there wasn’t any proof of that either. But I wanted to tell them: If you’re trying to feel younger, just please don’t make me listen to it.
We’ve been obsessed all day long with the Punch Brothers’ latest teasers from their new album. In fact, Guion is picking out the beautiful little tune from “Alex” on the charanga right now.
Working full time really puts a dent in your reading habits, I discovered. But I also discovered that, since all of my other coworkers eat their lunches in our separate cubicles, I can get a solid 40 pages in during my half-hour break. I’ll find out what’s going to become of Ada, or Ardor in no time.