And so it (soon) begins.
I’m taking a short sabbatical from work. Two weeks (plus weekends) away. Some might call it a vacation, but it’s more. And a little less since I don’t think I’ll be traveling anywhere exotic or far. And although a cruise or weekend away with the manfriend sounds divine, we haven’t made that happen. I like to see and sit in new places, but don’t care to do it alone. Maybe I just should. I have open invites and places to nap among friends. But I don’t want to visit friends who haven’t seen me in some time – decades or two for some - in this fat. Vain and unnecessary, I know, but some of my cutest things are cutting a little funny.
I plan only to be nothin' to nobody. No deadlines, no schedules to keep. I’m going to nap during the day, drink in the afternoon. Have lunchtime sex. Write in coffee shops sipping from a porcelain cup, stirring in nutmeg and froth with a metal spoon and feel inspired more than tired, like the kind of tired I am right now. I’m going to linger at the gym and take long steams. Read the newspaper every day and spend too much time on Facebook and in the indie movie theater where they serve drinks and real butter on their popcorn. And eat birthday cake on Monday and Tuesday.
And maybe I will surprise myself with a last minute trip. Maybe to New York. I think I want to live there because I feel somehow boring and slow and safe here, not floating in the glitter you have to shake up from the bottom, like in the snow globes they sell in souvenir shops along Times Square.
Gosh I hope we get our first snow the next couple of weeks.
I'm starting a 1/2 hour early with this Grey Goose dirty martini, two gargantuan olives instead of the usual three. Because you have to start somewhere when getting back into smaller jeans. He's picking me up for a date in a hour. Dinner, drinks and the theater.
He likes me in whatever I wear.