thursdays child: wears rose colored glasses

when i first moved to chicago, i journaled daily. but i was 22, living on my own in a city i knew nothing about and well...everything was exciting.
the amount of snow that could fall in a mere 24 hours…was miraculous!
the funky coffee shop I found around the corner…so artsy!
the vibrant gay pride parade…so colorful!
a beach nestled at the very base of the city…so cool!
the clubs…outrageous!
the restaurants…divine!!
even the traffic and the blustery weather had a certain sex appeal. everything about the city was a smorgasbord of fresh, shinny, tempting, sophisticated people, places and experiences…all worthy of being remembered, all scribbled in messy 22 year old script while packed next to mysterious strangers on a bus on the way to work.

but all blooms fall from the rose and even the velveteen rabbit ends up in a dusty heap under the bed. because….all things new eventually lose their luster.

and i noticed it happening. the day that i didn’t journal….the week when i “forgot” to write. and before i knew it….my journal was shoved under the bed to gather dust next to memories of mr rabbit. the interesting thing is… i was aware of why i stopped...

...i was embarrassed. i was embarrassed i went through periods of time when days flowed in mundane, muddly riverlets of non sparkly existence and would pile up like dirty sports bras in the bottom of my puma bag. i couldn’t bring myself to memorialize a series of days that were supposed to reflect a cool life, and instead went something like this:

7:00 am alarm, groan and pull covers over head
7:04 turn on weather. -7 with wind chill.
7:15 suck down coffee while deciding exactly how many layers are enough for frostbite prevention and not so many that one feels as if they are entering premature menopause while riding the #7
7:45 run out the door to catch the 7:47 only to see the bus pull off while the driver looks indifferent and the passengers try to pretend they don't see the crazy white woman in a snow suit, waving her arms to stop while in a flat out michelin man sprint
8-6  work, gym, more work, more public transportation
...go to bed, wake, repeat.

i had this idea that if those days weren’t in writing…they could always be something different. if they weren’t in writing, i could remember them through the lens of a more styin pair of rose colored glasses. but once on the page they became…a reality. a boring reality…and in my twenties nothing seemed worse than a boring reality.

today at 4:45 pm i thought, “what the hell do i have to write about?” today was one of those wake up, gym, work and come home to a dead chipmunk on the back porch kind of days.

….and then mr c. came home and gave me one of his great bear hugs and a little nookie and you know what?....i realized that reality is pretty damn nice. and i realized that writing is therapeutic and by finding topics to post, i can literally create a day worth remembering.

and then we buried a chipmunk, ordered some pizza, watched weeds http://www.sho.com/site/weeds/episodes.do and went to sleep...so we could get up tomorrow and do reality all over again.

kisses - mrs m

ps...happy memorial weekend...mr and mrs are out of here and i hope you are too.  wishing you glory days filled with family luv, margaritas, beach trips and boat rides, and a moment out of your weekend to remember:

back to posting...next tuesday.