Today–or at least this afternoon–was thoroughly self-indulgent. Went out to lunch with Deb, which I haven’t done in a thousand years, and did the thing that I have been avoiding doing here–namely gushing at length about my new boyfriend. (I haven’t done it here, because A) as kind as y’all are, O readership, I realize that such things are rather tiresome to read, and B) I really, REALLY don’t wanna jinx it, and I have a sort of superstitious fear that too much public exuberance might do so. And, err, C) I don’t blog relationship stuff or something like that. (I know there’s a valid reason I have that rule, it’s just getting harder to remember why. Have I mentioned lately that he’s adorable? He is.)) Deb, fortunately, is a romance writer and thus a romantic* and is capable of smiling and nodding and being happy for her friends when they are being soppier than usual.**
So we had a lovely, if thoroughly southern lunch–spicy chicken breast with cream sauce and tasso ham over deep-fried grits, with green beans–and equally lovely mocha frappes and lemon bars at the Toad, and looked at cool jewelry at the little boutique down the way and I gushed and stared off into space with a vague, idiotic expression, and she took it all very patiently, and we lambasted the vagaries of publishers and the New York Times–Deb made #2 on the NYT bestseller list a few weeks back, so hey, a big round of applause for Deb!–and mutually complimented one another’s talent and wit and general coolness and recent weight loss–well, okay, I complimented Deb’s weight loss, and she told me that I look great but I’m rather alarmingly skinny at the moment and need to eat more, which is entirely valid–and mutually mocked one another’s mental failings and ADD and so forth.
And it was generally the sort of fabulous afternoon excursion that chicks have with their female friends. And I enjoyed it thoroughly.
And now I have to knuckle down and do some real work this evening.
*Although not quite as much as you’d think–romance writers are making do in a cutthroat and competitive business with occasionally bizarre requirement,s and thus need a hard pragmatic streak to underly the fluffiness and flowers.
**Which in my case is “virtually any soppiness whatsoever” since I am generally about as mushy as pig iron, unless small fuzzy animals are involved.