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Thursday, May 31, 2007 There was a time in what passes for my life when I found myself getting up extra early to drag my sorry (though adorable) ass to the Y for a long Four action-packed weeks after getting back from Madrid, my bod still seems to be running on European time, waking me up real damn early, so early that I've found myself giving in to it, pulling myself out from under lovely, warm sheets and driving into Montpelier to the gym. And mostly doing okay with it. Mostly. Two mornings ago, the first day back to what some might call normalcy after a three-day weekend. A Monday masquerading as a Tuesday. Me at the gym, barely conscious, my long-suffering bod not up to what I was trying to convince it to do. The result: me bitching and moaning at immodest volume. Dazed, not at my high-functioning finest. Waded through the full workout, which should have won me all sorts of brownie points on the cosmic level. Instead, the day brought a series of jolting, unpleasant moments, each one darkening my mood even more. I don't generally experience what some would call a bad day. This one, though: nasty. Its big saving grace: sunshine, birds singing. The warm season continuing its slow settling in. Lilac bushes covered with blossoms, butterflies browsing among clusters of lavender forettes for a nectar pick-me-up. The kind of details that can cut through my personal darkness. (Now there's a silly, melodramatic, self-important expression. It's not like I have anything going on in my life worthy of high angst. On the contrary, I'm awash in blessings. I just forget sometimes and begin grumbling about... whatever. Ignore me.) Er... where was I? Oh, right -- angst and rustic thingies. Gray, moist weather moved in later the next day, has hovered around ever since. Last night I woke up in the wee hours to the sound of a hard, hard rainfall pounding on the roof. Drifted back to sleep, woke up at a more user-friendly hour with an old top 40 song going through my head -- She's About A Mover, the Sir Douglas Quintet. How do these old tunes find their way into my teeny brain? I can't remember the last time I heard that one, could probably count on one hand the number of occasions I've heard it in my short lifetime. One more mystery. España, te echo de menos. rws 8:51 PM [+]
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