It is a rainy Saturday morning. I just finished a warm croissant with fig preserves that I enjoyed with my coffee. I’m trainspotting now. #88 Northbound just left Ashland, headed to New York.

I think I could pay for my trip to New York in March by bringing two cartons of cigarettes and selling them on the “grey market”. But I won’t, because I don’t know anybody who could access said “grey market”. Oh well.

I’m thinking this question this morning. What do we risk for love?

Being in love with someone should take us out of our “comfort zones”. Huh? What is that? It is a term we use that we think other people understand, but, I suspect, don’t. Being outside such a zone suggests discomfort, sometimes physical,but other times that our sense of social or relational conformity is stressed. Think meeting your future in-laws for the first time, or asking that hottie if they would like to go out.

Being in love is about being uncomfortable. Eventually the edge of discomfort wears down. That usually means we are taking that erstwhile hottie for granted.

This is too much time ruminating, even for me, on this lazy Saturday. More. Maybe later.