I love my life.
I really do.
It’s messy and loud, but it’s mine and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
That said, there’s nothing like a birthday to make you (okay me) all broody and pensive about what you are, and what you thought you’d be, where you are, where you’re going, what you’ve done and what you haven’t. I think far too much. I know this to be true.
I found myself all twitchy and agitated today, wanting to be right where I am, wrapped up in little boy love and at the same time, wanting to be wearing a scarlet red dress, cut up to there, in a convertible, with big rhinestone sunglasses, passing through lush green mountains in Belize and listening to flamenco on the radio, silver scarf trailing behind me. Maybe a new book having just hit the stands, and a gallery opening to attend next week. Yeah, that’s it.
I want the exotic, wordly, see it all and do it all me, and also the home-body, lay on the floor and play hotwheels with my guys me.
Then, the lines between those two worlds blur just enough, when I introduce my fella to the Gipsy Kings (yes, it’s really spelled that way, I checked) and we dance around the kitchen and laugh so hard our cheeks hurt. And I know, to my core, that no life I could have chosen would be as wonderful as this one.
Yeah, I’m right where I belong.
Still though, a red dress would go well with the wine and the rose, don’t you think?