Hello, Reading Friends. So, I joined a gym. It’s not what you think! I joined last fall–not January 1st–when my son left for college. He and my husband had been going together, and I just transferred over the membership since we had it anyway. Sigh. I have a friend who describes going to the gym as “Gymprisonment.” I don’t exactly feel that way–except on certain days. Certain days, the music piped in at this place is the kind that if a kid did a science experiment with two houseplants, one houseplant get Bach and Mozart and thrives, grows six inches in a day, and the other plant gets *this* stuff–and shrivels.  Really, I should buy some headphones and pipe Bach and Mozart into my own ears, take responsibility for my own listening happiness and health. Anyway, on one particularly music-heinous day, I found my mind wandering, looking for patterns in the cracks in the leather benches of the weight machines. You know, like constellations, or the pictures you perceive in the plaster on your bedroom ceiling on insomniac nights, or golden brown swirls that look like portraits on grilled cheese sandwich bread. All of a sudden, I saw it. There, pressed into the black leather: a perfect replica of that line drawing John Lennon did of himself. You know the one, from the 1970s, with the long hair and the little round glasses, the minimalist sketch. Plain as day. I’m not exaggerating. It was just organically there! (At least to my music-melted brain.) And oh, how it made me wish for different music. Pressing on. Trying to counteract alllll the chocolate.  Here’s to a healthy new year to you! With lots of reading and chocolate and good music.