It's 8o degrees today in Austin, TX.
I just spent two hours laying in my backyard, soaking up the sun, and cursing the zero lot lines because I really wanted to rip my clothes off and just… dissolve into the warmth. Sanity (weakness?) prevailed and I kept my clothes on. And then I started to get hungry. And then I realized that I'd spent two hours laying in the yard and not writing. Though I was reading poetry, so that almost sort of counts as working. It was research. It was for inspiration. Both of those things. See? Working.
Laying in the yard, talking to ladybugs (I left that part out, but yeah, it happened), reading poetry – Jesus, crying over poetry. I know. God, I know. Have you seen the movie Frances Ha? I am undatable. So undatable. (Which is good, because I'm married, but if you see the movie you'll know what I mean.) I am a mess. I am coming undone. But maybe in a good way?
It was a lovely morning. Even hearing the neighbor clipping his toenails didn't distract from my good mood. And knowing that it's going to be freezing and gross by the end of the week made me enjoy it all even more (minus the toenail clipping, of course).
I guess there's not really a point to this blog post, other than the fact that it's been over a month since I posted anything. Don't fret. I'm still politically outraged about a whole slew of things, and I'm still constantly overwhelmed and bested by my children. I still make terrible dinners and burn holes in my shirt by leaning too close to the cookie sheets (not because I'm baking cookies but because I realize it's 6 pm and the children are starting to actually eat each other so I better heat up a frozen pizza, stat). I'm still being thwarted by my manuscript that is too hard to write and too sad and creates so many feelings that I literally lose my breath while I write. I'm still constantly ruining clothes by being unable to eat olive oil or salsa like a normally functioning person. I still can't figure out why there's that smell in my pantry, and I'm still too lazy to drag everything out of it to investigate.
I'm still everything.
But today it's 80 degrees and I'm wearing my olive oil stained capris because I'm too embarrassed to wear running capris in public, and I'm still sniffling over the poetry I read in the yard, and I stopped writing this for a minute so I could dance to the song Dressed in Dresden. All of these things are happening, which feels like a LOT. Except, it's really nothing. But then the nothingness of it makes it feel like something pretty great. What? I don't even know anymore.
Maybe I have to have days of laying in the yard and crying over poetry because I spent so many years not being able to do that. Maybe this is like some kind of 37-year-old lady rumspringa.
Or maybe this is how everyone feels when you get an 80 degree day in December?
I don't know. But I like coming undone… at least for today.