I have always been a collector. I guess I was born to gather, group, rearrange and admire objects. When I was a little girl, acorns, feathers and pretty, sparkling rocks filled the pockets of my play romper. A fierce interest in stamps festered throughout my school-age years. As a young adult, I dragged home from auctions those things not worthy of the bidding price asked: lamps in need of rewiring, musty feather down pillows, scraggly quilts, etc.
While my contemporaries amassed LP record albums that sat squarely in milk crates, I took an interest in accumulating textiles. Laundering linens, yellow with age, stained by rust, and gray from detergent, gave me sublime pleasure. I would soak the intricate lace doilies in a solution of vinegar and water and coax them back to their snowy whiteness. Then, I would hang them on a clothesline to dry under a hot, hot, sanitizing sun and to soak up the impossible-to-capture scent of the outdoors. Finally, I would press them, poking the iron into tiny frills and ruffles to ease any rumples. I enjoyed every minute of this labor.
When I should have been purchasing sensible things to furnish my first apartment, a treasure trove of multiple strand necklaces lay glittering in the top drawer of an antique vanity. I didn't have bath towels, but I had the colors of the rainbow held captive within a bureau. Because necessity forces practicality at times, I scored,at a garage sale, a bed, a brass one with a small dent in one of the bars of the headboard. And so I could offer guests a place to sit, albeit not a particularly comfortable one, a wicker settee served as my sofa. It was purchased on clearance at a store closing sale.
Monday, January 10, 2011
A gray day surrounds us. The weary sky is the color of the rinse water one might find in an old-fashioned galvanized wash tub. Lacking conviction, an erratic breeze is causing the awnings that hang out over the sidewalk to ripple in tiny canvas waves. The air is cold, cold, cold and stings the nostrils and lungs upon entry. It is annoying to have to invite in such an annoying guest. I'd rather be anywhere but here right now.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Breezy is angry because I would not commit to going to the gym and working out with her. It's snowy and cold and I do not feel like venturing out into the darkness. Besides, because exercise has not been part of my life for quite some time, I do not own the appropriate gear and accessories for weight training and using a treadmill. This makes me a horrible mother and also distinguishes me as the one responsible for ruining Breezy's weekend. It seems I cannot be true to myself without hurting someone else. I'm beginning to think I am a failure at interpersonal relationships. Why is being a parent such a constant struggle?
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Today as I was walking to work I realized something that will affect the way I approach writing my blog. Heretofore, (love that word--its pompousness renders it silly) I carefully edited my choice of topics and labored to get every word just right. I worried about who would read my writing and how they might judge me and my prose. I agonized that perhaps no one would read it at all. But, today it occurred to me that writing is something I do for myself. It's what I do to express myself. Some people talk. Some people draw. Some people dance. Some people perform. I communicate most easily by writing. So, I guess you could say that my writing is a sort of conversation I am having with myself. Others can read my written narrative if they so choose, but they cannot determine what I will commit to paper (or to the screen, as it were). What liberty and ease I feel! Unleashed and eager to launch forward!
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
It happens every year right around this time. I take an assessment of the damages inflicted upon my physical appearance by too much holiday celebration. The toll this yule season has been extreme. I'm actually afraid to step on a scale. We're not talking about a weight gain of a couple of pounds here. I've packed on an extra 15 to 20 pounds that have settled on my hips, thighs and stomach. I feel wretched. I fear I have lost control. When I look in the mirror, a stranger gazes back at me. I must make a change.