Or at least, I say two judging from the comments, no wait make that three, though it's likely there are more who are either too stunned to write in or are actually related to me and teetering between admiration and dismay at my recent activities. Yes, that would be my Lovely Libran sister.
Still, there is a yawning temptation to simply document. In my most frantic recent moments, I find myself too swept in my own reflection or conversely, too intent on distraction. Sometimes the words, "I think therefore I am" as Descartes put it, can be in and of itself, a curse.
While they seem particularly talented in laser focusing on purpose filled agendas, such as fishing, earning a Michelin star, vanquishing regimes/corporations/enemies into cosmic dust, proving why a Dyson really isn't worth the money by taking it apart thus rendering it truly worthless in the process, getting you into bed, etc. on a daily basis, they enjoy what I call Visualis Canis aka Dog Vision. Take for instance, the pre-date ritual of outfit selection. Since female senses are a lot more acute to details, we will madly dash about getting mani-pedis, getting waxed, matching outfits or usually buying one, deciding on hair, gloss or lipstick, etc etc. Calibrating the perfect outfit should really convince all powers that be that it is indeed us, who should be running the navy.
So you present yourself to them THINKING all the minutae you just put yourself through would be duly noted. Alas, not. In Visualis Canis, everything is a broad stroke. A cluster of shapely colors, which explains why even the bright plumage you don is trumped by the shape of your outfit, hint: Shapeless BAD, Hourglass GOOD. WE are fussing over the annoying bra bulge, THEY are just happy your breasts extend away from your waistline. None of this applies if you are Tom Ford.
It is the Philosophy of That'll Do, Pig. And it's wonderfully liberating. When you can abscond your feminine urges long enough not to go on a detail-binge. I mention this as it's precisely what I've been indulging in for the last two or so weeks. Hence my absence here. I have been in the Land of No Questions, where most men live.
Could I live here forever? If it weren't for the pesky fact that SOMEONE has to deal with the details, I probably could. It is remarkably zen and spotless, even while I'm face to face with a grimy hand printed wall. How did I get here? Courtesy of a few good men, of course.