Sometimes, and only sometimes, sitting on the couch feels really, really good. Yesterday, every single knuckle in both hands protested use. Every now and then I find a single, silvery hair amongst the nest of black. As I type this, my husband's fancy infrared therapy machine is doing its thing to my right knee. Finally, and perhaps most telling, as much as it pains me to admit, I think the new Buicks rolling off the assembly line are quite beautiful.
