Oh, it is Wrist to Forehead Sunday! Do I have to define that every time? I would think regular readers would get tired of hearing how I feel inclined to swoon onto a handy chaise lounge, dramatically posed with the back of one wrist to my forehead (predictive text certainly expected me to type it). I still have not acquired that elusive chaise lounge. My house is such a mess these days I would be hard pressed to find a place to put it. Some days I struggle to find a bare area to swoon.
I must confess I spent most of the day reading a Victoria Holt novel. Holt is a mistress of the kind of exciting, mysterious romances where the heroine is in love with an arrogant, exasperating, devastatingly attractive dude that may or may not be a murderer, usually of his wife. You can judge me for reading this sort of potato chip fiction, but hers are very well written. On the vaguely productive side, I went running in the morning and currently have a load of laundry in the drier.
It has long been my contention that it is useless to try to get anything done on a Sunday. It has also long been my practice to try to get something done anyways, or at least beat myself up for failing to do so. If beating oneself up burned calories, I would handily meet my weight loss goals.
I do not know where I thought I was going with this blog post. I guess I just hoped to rattle on for 200 words. Score! I guess that makes three things I got done today.