I don't know karate, but I know ca-razy!

Yep. My life is ca-razy, but in the very best way possible . . .

Okay, we'll pick up where we left off:

Thursday was a pretty normal day, except that I was distracted all day by thoughts of a certain Cute Boy. That evening, I went to the Dallas Symphony with the 'rents to hear Ralph Kirshbaum play the Elgar Concerto. I found his performance decidedly uninspiring, especially when juxtaposed so directly with Edgar Meyer's brilliant work the night before. Kirshbaum had one speed and width of the vibrato--slow and wide--which only worked for parts of the slow movement. The rest of the time it sounded like the silver-haired lady in every church choir . . .

Friday I had no classes all day, so I did some laundry and so forth and then went to Friday Forum, where I got to see Cute Boy. After hanging out for a while, I had to head out to my eye appointment. They'd moved offices, and I had so wisely written down the address and phone number, in case I got lost--and foolishly left that sheet of paper at home. So, I finally found it, 20 minutes late.

It was the strangest eye appointment of my life. First of all, my optometrist started out the visit by just chatting with me about Einstein and brain development and literature for classical guitar and so forth for what seemed like at least 20 minutes. He finally got around to checking my eyes, and after I looked through the machine and all of that, he just started staring at me for another good minute or so (which felt like 15). "You have beautiful eyes," he said. "Very beautiful. And your eyebrows, too. It's a nice design."

What the ?! "It's a nice design?!" Thanks, I'll tell God that when I see Him. He then proceeded to recount what, specifically, about my eye structure was so appealing--using technical terms I can't even remember. Then he said, "Let's just for fun try on some colored contacts."

So I did. While I was trying on some different eye colors, he came in and stared at me some more. His assistant, a girl in about her early 30s, had been in there gushing to me about this color and that when he entered. "What do you think of the blue?" she asked. "I don't know," he said, staring squarely into my eyes. "I'm just . . . mesmerized. She's so beautiful!" Awww, shucks, Doc. Yet another example of a man 50+ who thinks I'm hot.

I'll spare you the play-by-play of the rest of the weekend to this point, and help you out by saying that much of it was spent in the company of The Cute Boy. (I say "The Cute Boy" because it's a less weird phrase for me than "my boyfriend." I've never thought about needing to say that phrase, and I think he'll understand that it'll take some getting used to on my part before I can say that particular phrase without making some weird face or giggling uncontrollably or anything else I might do. Of course, it's no fault of his--just weird is all.) Anyway, he's great and I liiiiiiiike him . . . oh man, what a week.

Like I said, CA-RAZY.