I have rosy cheeks tonight from the combined effects of a Sunday night bourbon and a hardcore exfoliating mask. I have a glob of hydrocortisone on a spider bite. (Oh! I have a spider bite. And I have a few little lines drawn around the perimeter of the angry red area to make sure that it's not growing. We'll see tomorrow, we'll see.) I have all my blankets and pillows piled up behind me and I'm reclining against them while I type this, and I feel like a princess, with very rosy cheeks. I've got a book I'm supposed to be reading for book club this week, but instead I saw Allison's post and I felt this rush of affection for her and for rainy November trying so hard to be its own thing instead of being pre-Christmas and for this old dusty blog and I thought, well, hell, if she can do it so can I. That sounds so wrong, as if I think it's easy! If it were easy everyone would do it. If it were easy I would not have thought, every time this bit of internet crossed my mind, oh you should cancel that subscription and let the fucker die.
I have more time, more people, and more to do than I thought I did. I have, small as it is, a notched groove with my name on it, and if you twist me just right, I lock into place where I belong, with a job to do, holding things together. This is not a new feeling. In fact, it's a very old one, but I thought I had put it away like other childish things. Here you are again, old friend feeling. Good to see you.
I have a fresh mascara to replace the one I bought *mumble* ago; I have an eyedropper full of oil-blend that keeps my hands from drying out; I have a stack of white washcloths that still smell like bleach no matter what kind of laundry additives I use. I have more lipsticks and no eye shadows. I know because I threw them all away; I look like a woman from the 1986 Penney's catalog when I wear eye shadow and it's time I accepted this. (You guys.) I have two teeny Tom Ford perfume samples from Sephora and I'm wondering if I love one of them enough to buy a full bottle, or if they don't do it for me. Myron likes them both; he's no help. I have a husband who appreciates fragrance and a mother-in-law who can't bear it and a city that posts reminders in every public place that scent-free is kinder than scented. I want to be kind. It wars against the way I feel ten minutes after a bit of Nirvana Black has started doing its thing with my skin. I have, then, a good excuse to spray anything I want against my wrist when I know I'm spending the day with Supernatural on Netflix, a paint roller and a gallon of warm white, and the black tank top I ruined six years ago when I painted the house in Ottawa. I guess it's not ruined if it still hangs on and does its work.