At the Mulberry Inn

I come to you a strange creature, having exercised a bit, creative thoughts a’whirring, good news on the horizon, a bit of autonomy available to me, and my reproductive organs absorbing the dangerous death-rays that only wifi can provide.

(I was literally told today to stay out of the park, where the Public wifi is strong because I am young and of childbearing age.)

I think Mr. Ted Dwane had it completely right…if your mood is off, go out and get some exercise and fresh air before putting it down to anything else.  For me, also get some food in you.

CitO asks me this:

On a scale of 0 to 10, 0 meaning that absolutely no part of you believes you can or ever will have love in your life, and 10 meaning that you absolutely know for sure in your heart that you will, where are you?

I was thinking about this yesterday, a day that was fine, and good just as today was and I thought that I sit at about a 2.  An honest 2.  Maybe I might strain to 2.5 if something obscure and unforeseeable occurred.

I think today is a three and my reasons for upticking the rating are not incredibly profound, but they feel worthy.

I’ve lost a certain amount of weight, no, not yet of note to post here, not yet cemented in the have lost and it won’t find me when I turn the corner category, but the scale took another pound away this morning.  I was talking to my older sister about this, griping a bit about my mother and her experiences with weight loss versus our own and how she didn’t get it and it wasn’t about numbers.  I confess a measured delight when I saw the new number.  I kept my head, of course, and can only attribute that to the actual exercise we got yesterday while talking…but progress.  Progress is kinda sexy, you know?  Moving forward instead of being stuck in the same old sucky morass, being at the very least capable of falling off a log.

And then I put on a dress and did my makeup and hair.  The dress that I think looks kind of retro and pretty and the half-committed victory rolls, and murky cats-eye eyeliner that looks looked like it was drawn on by an epileptic child so that I felt kind of Mad Men, askew.

I got a compliment today.  Compliments, in fact.

A peer commented on my hair.  Then, the guy upstairs, the kind, funny, bit odd-looking in a handsome way, though quite married, and excessively tall (marks against his character of equal complaint) wanted to know why I was all dressed up.   I said, without thought, Laundry Day.  He said, my laundry days I end up looking worse, but you look good.  Really nice, he said.  Before bounding out the door as is his general gait.

That took me a bit off-guard, made me smile, that I was seen.  Not for me, not for things that matter in the long run, but I could make a dent in someone’s daily haze.

So it felt like, yeah, maybe a boy could, not that he would, not that I’d allow it or he’d feel motivated past looking, but maybe a boy could look at me and feel…I don’t know, something?

And if he could feel something, I don’t know, I could get drunk and be bored and curious and forget my limbs and affectations, and maybe feel something back.

And maybe, stars aligning, heavens opening up, Jesus, one of us would be brave enough to tell the other.

Through an oily, gauzy film, I view this and I allow that this may happen in my lifetime, but I’m certainly not playing the odds on it.


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