Tomorrow morning, as I mentioned before, one of my workshop friends is down from NYC, so I'm having breakfast with him and then a writing date. Plus he has the draft of "The Moonlight Marriage" to look at, if he had time (it's not urgent). I have fond imaginings of also writing after he takes off in the early afternoon, but will probably crash then, mentally if not physically. Am determined to also write on Sunday morning, before a late lunch date at XIX (the Four Seasons does not have High Tea on Sundays, after all).
We shall see if the writing time balances out with the social time.
I lifted weights last night, mostly machines, but I dared squats again. I went down to 70 pounds on the barbell, to see if that was better for my foot. Later on today, when the stiffness sets in, I will find out if that was too much.
I am mostly okay. It's the nights that are hard. I miss my dad. I miss his hands. I think grief is like that; you have to mourn each tiny thing, one at a time. It's like the very slow breaking up of an iceberg, bits tearing off raggedly and floating away into a cold, cold sea.