I was such a good girl and went to workout the morning of Thanksgiving. Other people had the same idea, all of them the ones who give thanks this year to their bodies for looking so fit and beautiful. Thank the body for being strong. Me, I was thankful for velvet pants I get to wear so long as my body holds its current shape. (Not sure that the pants are strong enough to contain me, however.)

One of the trainers at the gym, Pete, sang just the way I like to hear it: Heeelllen, did the massage work? Yes it did. My back no longer aches and I'm pleased to work out strenuously. He said he told me it would. Such a short block of a man with bleached blonde hair. He used to buy coffee from me when I dealt it across the street. Now, when I'm up on the Gauntlet climbing the escalator backwards, I see him 14 floors below partaking in caffeinated beverages with my former competitors. He asked if my old place was still there and I said I'd tried to visit and it wasn't. I added that it must've gone downhill after I left, to which he replied, Yeah! Literally!

If I were rich I'd have a massage every week. I need hands on me. I like it deep: The pain is there you know, not on the surface. I can't afford the luxury of touch. Would it were that we lived like gorillas and we expressed love and friendship and paid rent through habitual, daily grooming. I like bananas well enough.

You know I was sinking last week. I wanted to write about it but lacked the energy…. I think I even spent the duration of Wednesday in bed. I went out for something though - can't remember what - and ended up with a pair of velvet pants. The magic pants. Cured me. I wore them the rest of the evening in a house exploding with loud fast music. Then I wore them for Thanksgiving dinner. Stuck in traffic for two hours trying to reach the family. I didn't mind, couldn't keep my hands off myself: All is better in velvet pants.