Time for dessert

There’s a slab of leftover chocolate cake in my fridge. Blame it on the friendly waitress at the restaurant I took myself out to lastnight. That’s pretty unfair to her, though, since I had noticed a sign advertising cake as soon as I’d walked in. On any other night I probably would have felt guilty about adding a final indulgence to my restaurant bill, but it felt so good then. I was at a corner table, reading a book and finishing off a beer, enjoying the whole mellow and dimly-lit experience. The waitress called the chocolate cake “amazing,” and I since I still had room for it after my meal, I happily obliged.

Dessert pushed me over the edge into being the good kind of tired. I’d spent most of the day moving furniture into a friend’s apartment—an achievement that, I realize now, probably called for a long hot bath rather than a slice of cake. (Ah, but there’s still time for both.) The day before I had taken a long, meandering walk around Mt. Tabor. It was leisurely, but we covered a good distance, and there was some climbing involved. I caffeinated myself before we set off, because I’d been up late the night before—attending a concert that had me standing and sort-of-dancing all night, resulting in an extremely achy back. And there you have it: All three of this weekend’s major activities resulted in sore joints and achy muscles. Certainly I deserved a nice dinner and a piece of cake. However, I’m short on excuses when it comes to the pizza, the Ben & Jerry’s milkshake, the mochas with whipped cream, and the carton of ice cream in my freezer….

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