Simple Pleasures

This weekend I went to visit my parents at their new house, and just as I got out of the car, the little girl next door successfully rode her bike on her own without training wheels. Her dad was whooping and cheering and I started clapping just because the moment was so great in its sheer uncomplicated euphoria. It just seems that the older we get, the less often we get to experience (or perhaps sadly enough we just don't even notice) those moments of simple happiness and accomplishment.

Hopefully I will experience one of these moments in bellydancing class, although I expect it's more likely that I will find I have the grace, dexterity, and balance of a drunken one-legged elephant with severe joint inflammation. The class very nearly got derailed due to a request I got today to fly out to California for a two-day meeting for work, the second day of which would have been the first day of class. I figure if I miss the first day of class, I might as well cancel the whole thing, so I asked management if I couldn't teleconference in and luckily they agreed. (although I'm sure they are glad to save the airfare and hotel as well.) So Wayne Brady won't have to choke a bitch, although he may want to take protective cover when I learn how to properly shake what the Good Lord gave me.

I dropped the last M&M out of the packet I was eating after lunch. Probably the cosmos' way of telling me I've had quite enough of that particular simple pleasure.

Food should be a simple pleasure, but setting out to taste EVERYTHING at the Taste of Chicago seems a bit excessive to me. And nauseating. Of course, the Taste (for me) brings back only memories of being stuck between large hairy sweaty men clutching giant turkey legs. If you want to interpret that as a subconscious fear of caveman male mentality, go ahead, all I can tell you is that it was freaking gross.