Getting Out
One of the effects of burying oneself in work for an extended period of time is that upon digging out at last one feels so light and free that one is like to go flapping up into the sunshine without even touching the ground first to get a proper foothold on the day-in/day-out of normal life. It's like that sleepover stunt where you stand in a doorway and hold your arms straight while pressing the backs of your hands against the jamb for several minutes and then when you step away your limbs float upward as if buoyed by some spirit (perhaps the one that lends a hand in "Light as a feather, stiff as a board"?). To whit: so completely am I sucking the marrow out of this still-new month that I intend to leave it bird-bone hollow and scraping the stratosphere or else flattened out and panting on the pavement at the doorstep of April, exhausted but exhilarated. In short: It's good to be living again.
This week I'm spending three evenings somewhere other than in front of one of several glowboxes in my own home, and although the first event will still involve the teevee--I'm cordially invited to mockuttend the no-doubt MAGICAL JOURNEY that will be Jason and Molly's wedding (I hear it rains! goody!)--I still get points for (a) leaving the house and (b) indulging my vice vis-à-vis a "social event." With a nod to Billy Joel, we'll be sharing a drink they call The Bachelor, but it's better than watching alone.*
I'm also super-excited to be going on an actual baby-free date-like date with Simon tomorrow, for which we will dress up and hold hands and eat dinner together like old times, even if it means just wearing non-holey underwear and grabbing a weiner at TopDog which, although by no means high-class, at least bears some meaning to us and, of course, I don't think I'm going to hear complaints so long as weiner-grabbing makes its way into the night one way or another.
As for other out-of-doors, media-free diversions, it's a testament to how appreciative I am of freedom these days that I'm smiling instead of grimacing while standing, wind-whipped, in the backyard, up to my knees in weeds and my wrists in mud. In between the gales and downpours, though, it's more than pleasant here a lot of the time, and yesterday all three of us stayed at the park until the shadows and chill forced us and all the other toddler teams back home (or, in our case, for an impromptu Greek dinner with some friends before heading home). So full of the spirit of DOING was I that I barely even flinched when the other toddler parents at the park made ovations of forming a weekly playgroup there and then went around the circle introducing themselves and their children. (Winner of most unsual name: a darling little sprite named Duende.) I can't remember the last time a grown woman sidled up to me on a bench and asked, "So...you come here often?" I can't remember ever being so eager to accept her advances.
*The only thing sadder than going to a party to watch a Bachelor wedding for a season you didn't see is knowing you'd watch it at home by yourself anyway. (See also: actually giving a crap about the Oscars when I haven't been to a movie in more than a year (although, honestly, let's not fool ourselves--I really only want to see what everyone's wearing).)
I LOVE this picture. He almost looks like one of those sweet boys from Oliver Twist that grew up picking pockets and eating porridge. I mean that in a nice way, of course. Not that he looks homeless or anything. It's the hat. Aaaand I should stop typing now. What I meant to say is the pic is the best. Such great style.
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