I do realize that frustration, sadness and tragedy lends me to write in an attempt to purge emotion and work out my thoughts. The result tends to be a very one dimensional perspective of my personality. Granted, I am snarky, blunt and (I hope) amusing at times, but I'm not all bitter kitten. I have some folks that I'm friendly with that consistently spout anger and I don't know any of them that wear it well, so here I am, making a terribly benign post with not the least bit of the usual emotion driving my writing. I certainly hope that it doesn't have a melatonin-like effect. If it does, please do tell me, I can summon rants at will.
As I sit here, right at this very moment, it is sixty four degrees here in Atlanta. I can only half stifle my cackle of delight at this number. Fact: This season brings out the very best in me, if I could, I'd kiss Lady Autumn right on the mouth repeatedly in thanks. I am at my most genial and energetic. Thankfully, I live in a state where this pocket of weather has the ability to linger far longer than in other places, and that's lucky not only for me, but for all of the people around me. I try hard to not be the textbook Dennis Leary asshole that is constantly complaining about the weather, but I suspect that sometimes I become that person.
The closer I get to forty, the more like a ninety year old bird of a woman I become. I realized this while taking Mother out to lunch last week. As I found myself enviously eyeballing the new black shawl draped around her instead of listening to her talk about her doctor's appointment, I realized that I could easily fall into imagining myself yanking it from around her shoulders, then screaming and running down the street waving it through the air like a movie style Native American giving a victory war cry and displaying a freshly scalped trophy. It was eighty five degrees that day.
What do you want from me? Knitwear has that effect on me. Capes, huge sweaters, scarves, jackets…. I am absolutely convinced that wearing them gives a person magical powers. Pancakes taste better, coffee is more effective and my hair requires less hairspray. I become less surly, more energetic, ready for travel and more apt to meet up with people socially. I'll even spend a greater deal of time outside. I start wistfully pulling out my favorite fantasy: Breaking away from my quiet spells of writing and drinking tea to walk on a rocky Northern beach in front of my very own lighthouse to watch the ocean while wrapped in layers of clothing. My hair doesn't even blow into my mouth and smear lipstick all across my cheek, (because I obviously still wear lipstick despite being a recluse and that's always an issue with wind and long hair). That's how amazing and perfect this scenario is.
(side note: The above admission is proof that I am not just a hardened and callous realist. I am a dreamer approximately 27% of the time.)
For those of you absolutely shocked at the potential for the vast personality change that the weather can bring out of me, fear not. It won't last. Once the colder spells set in, I will start ridiculously shivering every time I step outside, much like a Chihuahua exposed to the harsh element. I will start lengthening the times spent at home curled up into a ball in a dark corner with my nose in a book while wrapped in seven blankets next to a space heater. I will once again begin grumbling under my breath, alternating between the complaints of cold and griping about the inevitable tragedy of ending up in a retirement community in Boca Raton just to escape the suffering that settles deep into my bones and tortures me.
My observations tend to have some bite to them, typically. Seemingly for as long as I can remember, every change of season inspired sadness in me because it reminded me of those that weren't there to see it. It's nice to be able to recognize the shift now. I'll hold on to that, because one must white knuckle grip the good things in life. Amidst all of the craziness in my world these days, the 'transitional period' that just won't seem to wrap up, I need it. Never underestimate the powerful feeling about being excited about life…. it's a shot of beauty, hope and promise straight into the vein.
I'm trying to not delete this passage out of fear that it's just not interesting. Whether it is or not, I'm going to leave it. If anyone wants to capitalize on hanging with the Autumn Tania (probably the best version of me), you'll find it less difficult than normal, given the drug like effect of the weather. Only, that is, after I've completed the quest to find the perfect tall boot for the season, the elusive leather jacket I've been searching for since 2010 and some vintage sweater hunting. Shopping is my crystal meth. You know this and I'm not sorry.
((As a small side note, I'm trying to begin revamping this blog since I seem to be paying more attention to it. If you have a blog that you'd like linked to mine, feel free to let me know. I was annoyed to realize that I've been away from here for so long that many of my links are no longer even functioning. I think I'm finally ready to give this much neglected page some attention.))
As I sit here, right at this very moment, it is sixty four degrees here in Atlanta. I can only half stifle my cackle of delight at this number. Fact: This season brings out the very best in me, if I could, I'd kiss Lady Autumn right on the mouth repeatedly in thanks. I am at my most genial and energetic. Thankfully, I live in a state where this pocket of weather has the ability to linger far longer than in other places, and that's lucky not only for me, but for all of the people around me. I try hard to not be the textbook Dennis Leary asshole that is constantly complaining about the weather, but I suspect that sometimes I become that person.
The closer I get to forty, the more like a ninety year old bird of a woman I become. I realized this while taking Mother out to lunch last week. As I found myself enviously eyeballing the new black shawl draped around her instead of listening to her talk about her doctor's appointment, I realized that I could easily fall into imagining myself yanking it from around her shoulders, then screaming and running down the street waving it through the air like a movie style Native American giving a victory war cry and displaying a freshly scalped trophy. It was eighty five degrees that day.
What do you want from me? Knitwear has that effect on me. Capes, huge sweaters, scarves, jackets…. I am absolutely convinced that wearing them gives a person magical powers. Pancakes taste better, coffee is more effective and my hair requires less hairspray. I become less surly, more energetic, ready for travel and more apt to meet up with people socially. I'll even spend a greater deal of time outside. I start wistfully pulling out my favorite fantasy: Breaking away from my quiet spells of writing and drinking tea to walk on a rocky Northern beach in front of my very own lighthouse to watch the ocean while wrapped in layers of clothing. My hair doesn't even blow into my mouth and smear lipstick all across my cheek, (because I obviously still wear lipstick despite being a recluse and that's always an issue with wind and long hair). That's how amazing and perfect this scenario is.
(side note: The above admission is proof that I am not just a hardened and callous realist. I am a dreamer approximately 27% of the time.)
For those of you absolutely shocked at the potential for the vast personality change that the weather can bring out of me, fear not. It won't last. Once the colder spells set in, I will start ridiculously shivering every time I step outside, much like a Chihuahua exposed to the harsh element. I will start lengthening the times spent at home curled up into a ball in a dark corner with my nose in a book while wrapped in seven blankets next to a space heater. I will once again begin grumbling under my breath, alternating between the complaints of cold and griping about the inevitable tragedy of ending up in a retirement community in Boca Raton just to escape the suffering that settles deep into my bones and tortures me.
My observations tend to have some bite to them, typically. Seemingly for as long as I can remember, every change of season inspired sadness in me because it reminded me of those that weren't there to see it. It's nice to be able to recognize the shift now. I'll hold on to that, because one must white knuckle grip the good things in life. Amidst all of the craziness in my world these days, the 'transitional period' that just won't seem to wrap up, I need it. Never underestimate the powerful feeling about being excited about life…. it's a shot of beauty, hope and promise straight into the vein.
I'm trying to not delete this passage out of fear that it's just not interesting. Whether it is or not, I'm going to leave it. If anyone wants to capitalize on hanging with the Autumn Tania (probably the best version of me), you'll find it less difficult than normal, given the drug like effect of the weather. Only, that is, after I've completed the quest to find the perfect tall boot for the season, the elusive leather jacket I've been searching for since 2010 and some vintage sweater hunting. Shopping is my crystal meth. You know this and I'm not sorry.
((As a small side note, I'm trying to begin revamping this blog since I seem to be paying more attention to it. If you have a blog that you'd like linked to mine, feel free to let me know. I was annoyed to realize that I've been away from here for so long that many of my links are no longer even functioning. I think I'm finally ready to give this much neglected page some attention.))
I think I must hibernate during the spring/summer seasons. For certain, I draw my shades, crank up the AC and hide from all of that heat and sunshine. It's not to prove a point, mind you.. it's just my nature. It is a well known and documented fact that I come to life in September and pretty maintain a good mood through February. Anyway, I started Halloween in the garage this year in July (corpse making and such). I have a DVD player out there and I pretty much watch horror films and make stuff that makes my neighbors mistrust me. There is no substitute though for the real fall season. In other words, I feel ya. :0)
ReplyDelete