recovery Sunday.

Days when you don't have to get up are the best.

Days when you wake up with the bed all to yourself and the hum of a whipper-snipper in the backyard are even better. Because then you can reach for a book (finished Middlesex yesterday, now rereading The Wonder Spot) and eat chocolate while reading in bed. Oh yeah. I think I was in the shower around... noonish? (Don't hate me, I'm usually very good.)
 
Last night we spontaneously wandered down the peninsula to a dance. If I make it to my fiftieth still dancing, I will not wear halter-necked polka-dot dresses with full swing skirts and ankle socks with flat shoes. NEVER. K and I decided that the worst thing your loving partner/friend/keeper can do is say "Honey, that looks beautiful! No-one would ever notice the two-inch overhang ALL AROUND YOUR DRESS."
If they really love you, they will gently suggest something more stretchy and a shopping trip the next day.
Verandahs are for houses, people. Do not aspire to become a house.
Curves = damn sexy. Curves bisected and tortured and generally distorted by badly-cut fifties' repros are not da bomb.
Right now I'm thinking I should slip into something a little more comfortable restricting and head on down to a slightly different Sunday gig for a bit more dancing. Exercise is definitely against my religion (like paying for parking) but dancing is incidental exercise. Entirely doesn't count. The lovely hubs, while acquitting himself with some serious panache and flair last night, is going to hit his geek metier (Magic cards) and then we'll all regroup for dinner. I can't quite come to terms with the idea of going to work tomorrow (I usually work at home Monday mornings). Driving an hour is not appealing. However,  driving fifteen minutes to dance? Very doable.