I’m rarely content — with anything.  It drives me to new degrees/jobs/careers/hobbies/projects.  It makes me experiment with vegan baking instead of buying Oreos.  It makes me crazy.  It keeps me sane.  It’s just the way it is.

I’ve been content with the hubby all along, though.  He’s a fairly constant form of perfection, but maybe that’s because he’s rarely content with anything else either.

This weekend was what I needed, though.  Live music with friends.  Wine and laughter with other friends.  Enough time at the gym to be sore.  Restocked the lauders at the grocery store.  And I got enough non-job work done to feel somewhat accomplished.  I still haven’t finished reading a nonfiction book for January, but I think I’m going to shoot for a yearly total this year instead of forcing myself to read shorter books than I’d ordinarily pick up because I want to meet an imagined deadline.

In other words, at the moment I feel like this: