Today starts with yesterday. Under an unusual compulsion, I jump into the shower before bed. I blow dry my bangs back - they're too long - and let the rest of my hair dry au naturale while I sleep.
Sleep in just a bit. Begin morning routine, slightly thrown off by the tres au naturale hair. Decide to curl it, pinning the bangs back. It turns out well and faster than expected. Makeup. I realize, with my bangs back, I can do a smoky eye...first time in months.
Hair looks good. Makeup looks good.
Samara, you could drive in. I could. Forget the bus, I'm driving this morning. Turn on the car so it will melt.
Keys x2, (brand new) iPhone, purse, book.
Not too bad of a commute... praying today goes better than the last two days. Bob's back today. It'll be a better day.
"I Will Wait" comes on. Theme song of the season.
Paint my spirit gold...
I'm crying at the 4th street exit.
Park the car. Dry my eyes.
Work away work away. Compliments on the skirt "Oh, thank you..." Work away work away.
Work is good - it is a better day.
Lunch - no LBD. Crack open the book for the first time. Embrace fiction. It's different, but I barely make it back to work on time. Then I have a hard time leaving the book-scape and focusing on work.
"At some point you have to choose between life and fiction. The two are very close, but they never actually touch." I hear my mom quoting. I'd rather not choose. Eh, date a girl who reads.
Work away work away. Cross off to-do list. The afternoon goes fast.
Join the parade northbound. Random musings during "five for the drive." Why can people accept the abstractness of music but not of narratives? They don't sit around frustrated asking - "but what do the notes mean?" No, it's only when you complicate things with spoken language that people expect the speaker to have things figured out, sorted, wrapped in a bow. They're not content to pass through the language and see what sticks afterward. "Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery." Listen to the music. Look at the paintings. Read the books. Watch the films. Accept the mystery.
Arrive at destination = another silent soap box session over.
Massage appointment. Car accidents stink, but I can't complain about consistent massages. My therapist says I look "British." For the win.
And finally... home.