It's 69 degrees in New York City and the cleavage is out in force.
I am experiencing the disheartening seasonal vertigo that affects me every year about this time with the shift in weather. This never ceases to perplex. Surely there must be something wrong with me—other than my incurable aversion to change. Of any kind.
It'll all sort itself out in a day or two: I'll toast the season with an inaugural iced mocha and, by the time we've reached temperatures favorable to the streetside margarita, I will barely remember how a cold wind feels seeping through my layers. April will happen and, with it, baseball. Things will begin to brighten. Life will get a little easier and a little lighter . . . at least until the dog days roll around and we'll all be praying for a snow in August.
That reminds me of Santa Maria della Neve and she reminds me of Italy and that reminds me of my wanderlusty travelers' ADHD. Maybe this summer I'll stay in one place long enough to dance outdoors and go to the Philharmonic in the park? Or maybe I'll carry my passport and a change of underpants around in my purse until somebody hands me a plane ticket (to somewhere, anywhere).
I am experiencing the disheartening seasonal vertigo that affects me every year about this time with the shift in weather. This never ceases to perplex. Surely there must be something wrong with me—other than my incurable aversion to change. Of any kind.
It'll all sort itself out in a day or two: I'll toast the season with an inaugural iced mocha and, by the time we've reached temperatures favorable to the streetside margarita, I will barely remember how a cold wind feels seeping through my layers. April will happen and, with it, baseball. Things will begin to brighten. Life will get a little easier and a little lighter . . . at least until the dog days roll around and we'll all be praying for a snow in August.
That reminds me of Santa Maria della Neve and she reminds me of Italy and that reminds me of my wanderlusty travelers' ADHD. Maybe this summer I'll stay in one place long enough to dance outdoors and go to the Philharmonic in the park? Or maybe I'll carry my passport and a change of underpants around in my purse until somebody hands me a plane ticket (to somewhere, anywhere).
My grand plans for the weekend include as many as 11 hours of dancing (if I can keep up the morale and not succumb to the charms of my big blue couch and DVR). If I could find a small enough bottle of champagne to christen the above pictured footwear, I would do so, as these shoes mark a significant jump in weight class (closed to open toe, suede to leather sole) and I'm going to need all the luck I can muster not to slip on the milonga floor and fall on my butt.
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1 comment:
your shoes kinda kick my shoes' ass, and I'm rigt there with ya on all counts. I made a little ritual for Ostara today, the vernal equinox. But it felt futile as far as elevating my spirits is concerned. Sig.
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