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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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7:51 a.m. - 2008-01-06
Ker-plunk! And suddenly I am myself again. Yeah? Just which self is that, LA? Far as we can keep track you have about a dozen personas and frankly, all of them are weirdos. True enough. How about if I say I am the self I like best? The one who has ambition, a brain running at warp 7, and who likes to wear big jangly earrings. The self who knows she's pretty and smart. And able. Very, very able. Call me shallow, but feeling sexy and pretty has A LOT to do with how strong and competent I am. Despite Mick's unflagging attention I have felt like a big old lump since Thanksgiving. Dull, dim-witted, and boring as meatloaf. Not wretchedly unworthy or anything like the dark days, but compared to this current self I was a grey dishrag. A fat lumpy grey dishrag that smelled a bit 'off'. Not a clue what changed. I haven't dropped a pound. True, my mop has grown out so much it's actually kind of fun again, but this better head on the outside is due to the better head on the inside. I feel like doing something with it, whereas until a couple days ago I just pulled a hat over the mess and soldiered on. Soldiering on seemed to be the watchword for this past season. Plodding along doing what I had to, but no more than that. Look decent but not great. Bake, cook, and clean as necessary. Do for Gram and Mick and Wolf. Keep things from going to seed. Don't overspend. Keep the thermostat down and my chin up. Meh. Perhaps my rapidly approaching 45th birthday has something to do with this upturn. No way in Hell am I going to start the downward slide toward 50 feeling like a lumpish loser. It's too late to be a prodigy. Too long in the tooth to be a smoking hot babe anymore. And it's time to finally accept I will never be a ballerina. BUT I'm not fucking dead. "Get thy shit together-eth, m'lady and make some hay in the feeble sunshine of middle age." Okey-doke. So to that end out came not one, but TWO manuscripts. And the re-reading of them was gooood. Wherever did I get the idea I had nothing interesting to say? How did I convince myself that regurgitating dry as dust financial info for a couple of corporate house organs was the limit of what I could write? While I'm at it, what the heck is that thing on the crochet hook? Since when is beige considered a color scheme? And do not tell me that's your altar. And your writing space. And have you really been wearing that? Ye gods, woman. I know. I know! I'm back now, okay? Okay. I really am okay, thank goodness. And to celebrate my return to self, a song.
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