Good massage last night.

And almost entirely on the biomechanical end of the continuum. Yesterday was a weird day, foodwise. I left my breakfast and lunch sitting in a bag here at home. So breakfast was from the deli in our building. And lunch was from the fast food restaurant across the street. By late afternoon I felt as if I were containing a food fight. I wasn't ill, but I was distinctly uncomfortable. Dinner was the last of the cheese puffs and half a glass of milk. Followed, after the massage, by dried apricots dipped in Nutella.

I'm starting off better today. Irish oatmeal with raisins. And my lunch is not only packed, but the bag is tucked safely in my knitting bag. I've figured out what I'm wearing to work.

I got my first utility bill in my own name yesterday. It's about half what we paid  last September. (I need to call the city and find out if it's too soon to set up average billing.) This is because I don't have a garden. And because I am not experiencing the wildly fluctuating internal thermostat that Beloved did in his last few months. And because as far as I know I have a healthy colon, so I am not flushing several times each hour.

I would rather have Beloved here, than economic predictability.

My massage therapist asked if I thought I would ever want to remarry, for companionship. Emphatically not. Before I remarried, the only element missing in my life was the love of, and for, a good man. I have that now. He's just not here, where I can hug him. Aside from chaste hugs from my handful of dependable, trustworthy male friends/family, I don't want another man touching me. Ever.

She quipped that God would have to tell me to be standing on a certain corner at a certain time and the man would show up. Yeah, pretty much. I wouldn't refuse Elijah the last of my oatmeal. But other than a direct inspiration, or more likely a commandment, no thank you.

I'm already married to the perfect man for me. Any other man would suffer by comparison.