Late this afternoon, I had a thought, I think I'll survive this winter after all.
It could have something to do with the fact that it was nearly 50 degrees. We're scoring early-March temps in early January.
It's funky. And I like it.
I celebrated by staying in my pajamas all day.
I promise I don't it as often as it may seem. I just feel compelled to confess when I do. Of course I don't like it. I don't enjoy being grungy all day. Yes, I avoid any and all mirrors. True, I might hide from Siley's camera. Indeed, I feel cooped up cozy, happy as a girl can be for the kind of day that requires nothing more from me than my presence. Of course I love it.
I washed sheets and read books out loud.
I brainstormed some crafts - Valentine's day is comiiiing!
I wished so bad that I could spirit myself to Austin Texas for this, come March.
When the bigs got home from school we made Greek yogurt parfaits then headed out for a sloppy, slushy walk.
We walked slow then slower, bending down to see what needed seeing. Most of what I needed to see wasn't "down" at all. It was around. Beside. Over. It was every house that sees me as a stranger. It was the fine thread of hope that Spring might change things.
I'd like to get a little healthier. I've started doing a little time on the treadmill, and by a little, I mean a little. I walk-jog-run (listed in order of duration) just one mile. No more. No less. I hate it. I hate every minute of it. Why am I such a stinking wimp? Why can't I be a cool running mom with hot pink shoes? Why do I sometimes run in my pajama pants? How can 14 minutes feel like a torturous lifetime?
I took a wash cloth down today to cover the clock, because if I don't cover it, all I do is stare. A watched treadmill never boils. Whatever.
Stay with me.
I don't need more food on my plate. I need it in my life. I need to woo my lost love. I need to rekindle the romance between me, my weekly menu plan, and dinnertime.
Who's to say that Grocery Store Confessional won't pop up in the process?
Who's to say.
I want to laugh when I want to, cry when I need to, believe in the deep-down that every moment was crafted for me.
I'm thinking a life fully lived, fully loved, spills out over its edges. That's what I want.
It began with taking the time to walk the improbable fault-line between seasons in my sweats, not caring for a second about anything other than everything in arm's reach.