Sunday Melancholy Cures.

No one ever told me when I was growing up, just how much Sunday afternoons would suck.

After 1:00 p.m. (usually the time on Sundays when I roll out of bed and wish I had cut myself off way earlier the night before) the light is just so sad, as the Sun starts to slant back down, and the clock runs towards Monday Morning, the most hated of all mornings. And it gets worse the later in the afternoon it gets.

I may have found my cure today.

Much has already been written about the new South Pointe Park, and I have to say, finally having gone, the praise is well, well deserved.

Farah and I got Joe's takeaway, and sat on a bench overlooking Government Cut, eatin' on fried chicken and sweet potato fries, watching the container ships pull out to sea. The weather could not have been better. It was the most romantic afternoon I've spent in a very long time.

Sun low in the horizon, and bellies full of chicken, fries and crabcakes, Farah was moved to propose marriage to me (as she is known to do); her entreaties included how smart, funny and beautiful our babies would be.

And in the jungle-green, and cerulean blue, and tangerine light, as the waves lapped the seawall and the fountains splashed and rose and fell, palm fronds creaking, I let her know that I was 33% inclined to accept her marriage proposal.

We wandered around, holding hands, people smiling at us, the couple apparently very very much in love... And I wonder why I can't find a boyfriend... probably because I'm making out with hot chicks at the Deuce or holding hands with them on a romantic chicken-filled evening stroll.

We passed Brooke Hogan, perched in a red cocktail dress being photographed on the jetty. She looked...manly. As we shared an orange chaise lounges while the sun dipped below the horizon, we were happy. Farah and I looked at each other and said, "we should do this every Sunday."