Behold the author at age two, picture taken by a professional photographer circa 1974. To this day I can’t believe my mom agreed to pay for copies. I do understand the parental compulsion to save memories and moments of our offspring’s precious childhoods. Judging by my scornful expression, I gather this was a day in my life better off forgotten. I’d hate to see the rejected takes.

This expression also sums up my mood for too much of today — a poisonous mixture of mandatory overtime in unhealthy, sleep-depriving amounts; stupid chronic muscle pain; a block’s worth of trudging through a nasty downpour without rain gear or even a jacket; and capped with a surprise medical bill from an office visit fifteen months ago. It was the kind of day that inspires little creativity and copious moping if I allow it to consume me. Ibuprofen and caffeine in varying doses soothed to limited extents, as did my wife’s usual daily abundance of kindness. She’s nifty like that.

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