I ran into my spring semester writing teacher the other day. "I have nothing exotic to report," she said after I'd mentioned the whole Hawaii business to her and asked about her summer.
And just now it's come back to me, what she said, as I look into the bedroom and see Raphael sacked out on the bed at nine p.m. on a Friday night next to a mangy old mauled-up tennis ball. Wow. I'm thinking. That's pretty much exactly what's going on with me right now too. And you know what? For now, I'm perfectly okay with having nothing exotic to report.