Friday, January 4, 2013

Life is what happens to you during an America's Next Top Model marathon

Three weeks are ticking down and I failed, miserably and wonderfully, on all the plans I made and all the "to do's" to do while on extended vacation.

I didn't re-visit the already written 400+ page memoir, didn't tie it up nicely into the traditional novel structure of conflict, complication and resolution to ready for a book proposal. Or write a book proposal. And the “mid-life-is-that-all-there-is-chick-novel” with (the real) John Taylor (no Simon Le Bon) as a major (if imaginary) character still exists only in my melon, as does the young reader tome whose concept is wildly interesting to a the 10-year-old who imagined it with me.

That was the goal, to stay behind the lilac writing desk tucked into a corner of my bedroom. I would forgo even showering and getting out of the leggings and oversize sweatshirts worn to bed the night before. I would write. For me. I would produce. 

But there was Christmas and getting the tree up, a beautiful thing, my first fresh tree in a decade. So soft I would absent mindedly pet it and loving refill the old-school metal stand with water daily. Its needles are now tipped in a white tinge of dehydration, parched and done. And with the holiday came intimate little cocktail parties and sweet presents, exploring with and enjoying friends and their young kids in the post-divorce holiday visitation cycle. Like cats drawn to people who just aren't that into them, kids dig me. They flock, take my hand and guide me through the Nature and Science Museum, call dibs to sit next to me in theaters and restaurants.

And there was the accident. A six-car-interstate-cruncher Christmas Eve eve that tested the karmic sense of grace and gratitude (much to the lovely girl who scooped us up freezing at a highway exit and drove us home) versus a focus on loss or blame (it was the dumb ass second car in). The crash left a curiously ugly and comically large deep purple seat belt shaped bruise across my abdomen, a Tommy Lee "Mayhem" tattoo looking thing. It's fading nearly two weeks on. 

Didn't make it to the gym once, but found time for wings and tempura veggies and homemade chili cooked with potatoes and topped with thick bacon, sushi and steak and pizza (plural) and popcorn with french fry salt. Yesterday was the first time I peed clear in weeks, water flooding out the the salt assault. I’ll get back into it, mostly yoga. Those pants are stretchy.

And even as I bemoan how much of this time was “wasted” that was also sort of the point, to regroup and revitalize and wake up late, have sex in the afternoon and watch marathons of “Snapped.”

This weekend while I pack up ornaments for a holiday that'll be here again quicker than one can imagine, I’ll mentally checklist what’s upcoming; another trip to Seattle at the end of the month (for music, real estate browsing and the meat trail mix sold only in Pike Market), dusting off the bag of old knitting stuff brought up from the basement (with fat yarn, absurdly large needles and a copy of Stitch 'n Bitch, I'm thinking scarf). Last Christmas I was given a beautiful ukulele and vintage case, and this year paid lessons to finally learn to play it.

So much to do.

Especially what happens while I’m busy making other plans.

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