Or an indecent one. I’m too tired to care. 

I think my younger son, Cuyler, is trying to kill me. We walked to the beach (several thousand steps, go me), where he worked out doing handstands and bear crawls.

(Click the link below and it will download to your computer. Then you can see my young man in action!)


while I laid in the sun.

Then we walked back from the beach (several thousand more steps, go me!). At that point I’m dead and hungry. And sure, he’s hungry, he’s always hungry, but he’s eager, far too eager after that walk and his beach workout, to go to a Pilates class. Because Rob and Casey need the car, and because the studio is close by, we walk to Pilates.

We take the class. We walk back. I’m dead, just dead. And he’s PERFECTLY FINE.

Our post Pilates selfie. Proof that he’s fine and I’m thisclose to a decent Christian burial. Or an indecent one. I’m too tired to care.

It’s that damn youth, I tell ya.

Casey and Rob went for massages. Then Rob drove him around to see lots of our favorite spots. Rob and Casey both report that it was “awesome,” even the massage. Even the massage?

How’d Rob get the massage and I got alllllll the damn exercise?

When do they go home?

And will I be alive to see them off?

Only if I survive whatever Cuy has planned for me today.

Send wine.