Yesterday was a scheduled day off from the rigors of the cheese shop. I woke up anticipating a morning dedicated to my mushrooming scribe and after brewing a brilliant cup of strong coffee, I sat down at the computer. Though my major project, on which I have written approximately 500 words in the last week beckoned, no, make that, hollered at me, I picked up where I left off on my next South Shore Living Post. Writing for SSL is kind of a loosey-goosey arrangement; but I promised a post every two weeks and darn if I’m going to miss a deadline. So, though my inclination pulled me elsewhere, I waded back in like a wrestler and picked up my opponent, spun him over the head and slammed him on the floor. Then I lost my grip and found myself head-locked by the competition.
That sums up how I feel with the SSL topic I have chosen; like I’m dancing on rubber mats, trying to get a clinch on this piece. For a few minutes, it’s in my grasp so I squeeze and wrap my leg around it trying to trip it to the ground, but just when I get close; it maneuvers a foot behind me and forces me down instead.
We were at a stalemate when the phone rang—the Doctor’s office calling me to remind me of an appointment I was already late for and telling me if I rushed right down, they’d see me anyway.
Whew. Match called as a result of darkness. We resume play again today, when if all goes as planned, I'll finally pin that sucker.