Eating chocolate in bed would not usually be OK with me. Crumbs, especially in bed, are upsetting. But on this particular occasion, what used to be a reasonably sized bar of dark chocolate has by now been completely decimated; what remains is lying on top of the wrapper, next to me beneath my purple comforter. I’ve been under here for about two hours now, time I would usually regret not spending more productively — I could have gone running, taken a shower and dried my hair in that amount of time; I could have baked two full batches of cookies; I could have cracked out a few integral calculus problems.
I’m old enough to remember days when a ride in the family car was a big deal. Especially when the old buggy was about to turn a milestone number on the speedometer.
