This morning I woke up and found myself making a foldover immediately; I wandered onto the porch with it, along with a soda and then hurried back to make another one. I wolfed both of them; there was no counting of the chews. (See, sometimes we chew for 35 times before swallowing – pudding can be tough – and I instruct that chewing more means eating less. This is mostly done in fun, but I guess I could could comprise between gulp and 35.)

Okay, I’ve peanut butter sandwiched myself and now must decide if I am going to take the chore route, the dynamic route of enthusiastic cleaning and spiffing up the place . . . or the meandering path of morning puzzles in the paper, some checking on Internet news. I  could just pull an afghan over my head and look out through the holes.

I wonder what I would do if I were at a beach resort? Go for a long walk at the surf line, winding up with wet shorts and probably sunburnt feet? Sit on the beach and look at the ocean, getting up intermittently to cool off in the surf? Sit up on the balcony of a coffee shop drinking a diet cola and watching the ocean, then wandering across the sand to the surf? Oh, the pressure of the decision-making process.

I must think about this . . . lower the Afghan Cone of Rumination, please.