When I was young, I remember reading Satre. Are we always the sum of our free choices — shaping our lives by defining our essence? Is this my chance to take full responsibility for who I am and what I am to become?

Ah, the ironies just pile one on top of the other tonight. How can I be discussing existence in an indifferent universe when Lent is when we remember the sacrifice that God made out of love for us?

In that TV film I’m not watching, the hero has just rescued the heroine from a fate that might not have been worse than death itself, but it would certainly have been pretty painful for a while. The credits are scrolling up the screen. That seems to be a natural punctuation mark in these thoughts. A full stop that gives me pause and offer me the chance to start a new sentence.

Tomorrow I start taking the Acomplia. It’s in my diary. That’s my plan for weight loss until the next washout and the phentermine comes around. I may be a weak vessel. Assuming that to be true, I’ll carry on relying on the medications until I’ve reached my allotted four score. After that, we can leave it to God.

I’ll talk to my husband about whether we’re going to give anything up for Lent this year. He’s always more practical than I am. Whether that makes him less spiritual. . . and if it does, whether it matters. . . This is not the time to care too much.

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