Restless Smiles and Daffs
Perhaps it is this time of year. Perhaps. Though, this time of year typically means I've bought myself daffodils. Ironically, I did not buy them in the rain this year. Someone told me a few weeks back I was very Wadsworth with the daffodils. Perhaps. The English Major for Life in me wants to agree with his own English degree self, but the feminist in me wants to knee gut that shit.
I think I'll step back and take the romantic imagery of Wadsworth instead.
"A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."
Indeed, probably one of the more famous poems of the language I type in. "I Wandered Lonely on a Cloud" was one I recited back in my undergrad days for a lit professor I once had. All that was a lifetime ago, scores and hundreds of daffodils purchased have come and gone.
As another arctic vortex swoops in, threatening to freeze me in my solitary existence overnight, I sit here and shiver under my fleece and fuzzy socks. As I've noted around before, that alone is the real cardio of winter. Shiver, shiver — putter from one end of the railroad studio to the other. Proofread a few sentences, try to avoid another typo. Shiver, shiver. Be brave and check the scale. Nearly faint when you see how low it is these days. Wonder if there's a ream of cookies hidden in the house, and then jolt yourself sane knowing that you'd have to bake said cookies to have them. Momentarily think about how the oven will make the place toasty, and then stop yourself knowing that eating a couple dozen cookies will not enable the too big skinny jeans to sag much longer. Contemplate that some more, stub your toe shuffling about, and come out of the haze most certainly worse for the wear.
Shiver under a blanket, while tinkering on failing projects, and briefly think about dating again. Attempt said dating. Collect more bizarre statements from men along the way, go out with one--a couple of times--to learn he's a psycho in a plaid button up. High-five yourself for not shagging him. He wasn't that interesting anyway, and he was a finance guy. Heh. Remember an advisor once told you, "Annessa, you need to find an educated man. One with an artistic side, as you--my friend--will never do well with a finance man." It was said with such panache and finesse that I still can feel the air swirl from his hand movements. Though, I can not argue with his assessment as I have never gelled well with the finance crowd. Then, or now, as a calamity of horror and comedy filled dates have shown.
Attempt to throw yourself into a run to remember you're still coming off pneumonia wearies, as you clutch your chest and wonder if this is what the end feels like. You then throw yourself into yoga--a practice you've never liked--to only pull a muscle in your arch leaving a bruise and a limp. Eat a few migraine pills in there, and realize the searing pain in your neck dissipates with those. You put two and two together, high-five yourself, saying they don't call you doctor for nothing. A week later think the foot feels okay and that the head is pacified and try to throw yourself into kickboxing to find yourself wailing on the floor. Thankfully, you were at your apartment on an exercise video queue. Pour yourself a drink, as that you can do well. Sit on your floor, in a pair of running pants that are sliding off, sipping said cocktail. Decide to venture into the shoebox closet and see if there are workout pants that you can hold up without ducktape, and they are on the back of the shelf you need to stand on a chair to get to .* Find a pair of college sweats, toss them on, and then dance around as they are loose. Text an old college friend that your panties and sweats are too big, have her tell you you need to get to laid. You respond with something about has she seen your dates lately, and she returns with something about they make things for that now. You volley back with something about high rates of breakage and fearing getting on a watch list for those, and you can't put the rest here because your Mom tends to read these pages. I'll let you imagine, as you blush from my innuendos.
Yet, I'm a little restless. Restless from winter, from waiting, from a level of pain higher than before I was on Benysta for six or so months. My Marilyn pills are in a state of flux, not going down by any means, and they aren't making the personal life any easier either. C'est la vie. So restless it is. Writing in the wee hours, writing between moments, writing for hopes again. As the story goes.
Daffs are in bloom though. There's always a reason to smile amid the endless, grey days of the frozen winter tundra.
*Mom, I was totally on a ladder for that. A sturdy, well-made ladder.
I think I'll step back and take the romantic imagery of Wadsworth instead.
"A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."
Indeed, probably one of the more famous poems of the language I type in. "I Wandered Lonely on a Cloud" was one I recited back in my undergrad days for a lit professor I once had. All that was a lifetime ago, scores and hundreds of daffodils purchased have come and gone.
As another arctic vortex swoops in, threatening to freeze me in my solitary existence overnight, I sit here and shiver under my fleece and fuzzy socks. As I've noted around before, that alone is the real cardio of winter. Shiver, shiver — putter from one end of the railroad studio to the other. Proofread a few sentences, try to avoid another typo. Shiver, shiver. Be brave and check the scale. Nearly faint when you see how low it is these days. Wonder if there's a ream of cookies hidden in the house, and then jolt yourself sane knowing that you'd have to bake said cookies to have them. Momentarily think about how the oven will make the place toasty, and then stop yourself knowing that eating a couple dozen cookies will not enable the too big skinny jeans to sag much longer. Contemplate that some more, stub your toe shuffling about, and come out of the haze most certainly worse for the wear.
Shiver under a blanket, while tinkering on failing projects, and briefly think about dating again. Attempt said dating. Collect more bizarre statements from men along the way, go out with one--a couple of times--to learn he's a psycho in a plaid button up. High-five yourself for not shagging him. He wasn't that interesting anyway, and he was a finance guy. Heh. Remember an advisor once told you, "Annessa, you need to find an educated man. One with an artistic side, as you--my friend--will never do well with a finance man." It was said with such panache and finesse that I still can feel the air swirl from his hand movements. Though, I can not argue with his assessment as I have never gelled well with the finance crowd. Then, or now, as a calamity of horror and comedy filled dates have shown.
Attempt to throw yourself into a run to remember you're still coming off pneumonia wearies, as you clutch your chest and wonder if this is what the end feels like. You then throw yourself into yoga--a practice you've never liked--to only pull a muscle in your arch leaving a bruise and a limp. Eat a few migraine pills in there, and realize the searing pain in your neck dissipates with those. You put two and two together, high-five yourself, saying they don't call you doctor for nothing. A week later think the foot feels okay and that the head is pacified and try to throw yourself into kickboxing to find yourself wailing on the floor. Thankfully, you were at your apartment on an exercise video queue. Pour yourself a drink, as that you can do well. Sit on your floor, in a pair of running pants that are sliding off, sipping said cocktail. Decide to venture into the shoebox closet and see if there are workout pants that you can hold up without ducktape, and they are on the back of the shelf you need to stand on a chair to get to .* Find a pair of college sweats, toss them on, and then dance around as they are loose. Text an old college friend that your panties and sweats are too big, have her tell you you need to get to laid. You respond with something about has she seen your dates lately, and she returns with something about they make things for that now. You volley back with something about high rates of breakage and fearing getting on a watch list for those, and you can't put the rest here because your Mom tends to read these pages. I'll let you imagine, as you blush from my innuendos.
Yet, I'm a little restless. Restless from winter, from waiting, from a level of pain higher than before I was on Benysta for six or so months. My Marilyn pills are in a state of flux, not going down by any means, and they aren't making the personal life any easier either. C'est la vie. So restless it is. Writing in the wee hours, writing between moments, writing for hopes again. As the story goes.
Daffs are in bloom though. There's always a reason to smile amid the endless, grey days of the frozen winter tundra.
*Mom, I was totally on a ladder for that. A sturdy, well-made ladder.
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