People ask me what I do when I get up so early (between 5 and 5:30 most days). They assume I am doing something earnest—meditating or writing or channeling my spirit guides. The truth is sometimes I do those things, but rarely before my coffee. Mostly in the wee hours I luxuriate in secret time, found time—a quiet unpunctuated by beeps and whistles and honks. The barely blue hours are when I feel the glamour of solitude most keenly: flowers cut like I like them, bulletin boards scrawled with my big ideas, feet and permakitten propped on the table, fingers painted an unlikely yellow, coffee cup resting without a coaster, and absolutely no media or people blaring. (My house growing up was quite loud.) I may be 46, but inside me a 6-year-old is crowing with great glee and satisfaction: IT’S MY HOUSE AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.
Recently, I shared a good kiss with someone I hadn’t considered attractive before. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t considered me attractive either. Don’t get excited, o ye who believes my “cheese stands alone” stance is by default rather than elective. This story doesn’t come with a happy ending–at least, not of the “happily ever after” variety.
That said, it was a very nice kiss, even if this gentleman lives somewhere sunnier and slower and neither of us are inclined to change a zip code on the grounds of a good kiss. Maybe when we were younger, though I highly doubt we’d have stuck to it–he’s not the sort to be seduced by the bigger mirror of New York and I’m eternally certain nothing tops a subway ride in which everyone’s an outsider. Continue Reading →