It occurs to me--with unfortunate frequency--that if the time I spent squatting was actually spent doing squats, I would have some big thighs.
(Backstory: I brought over a massive edition of "Les Mis." Hugo was one of my absolute favorites some years back--DAMN! Some decade-plus ago, almost two decades back!--and I bought this gloriously fat, new, unabridged translation to go to Italy. It didn't make the packing cut and I rued the choice as soon as I saw the books available at the BX.
Wow--to think of the difficulties I had in Italy, the relief of stepping into the BX and ordering a Whopper to eat while surrounded by big, solid, twangy Americans.
No, best not.
Suffice it to say, I didn't make the same mistake again, even if Hugo did sit in a bag for a year.)
It made me laugh to slide onto my tippy throne--toilet seats are enough of an alien luxury that fastening them does not oft happen in this culture--and see the largest commercial volume I've seen in Thailand sitting there as bathroom reading.
One day, there will be a similar tome next to a perch that occupies similar significance, save that it will be comfortable overstuffed leather and accompanied by a fireplace and more likely than not procured by a canid.
And that will be glorious.
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