After all those years of flashcard flipping, it turns out I have an inner romantic. Up there with Thoreau. My husband has referred to me as a hippie in moments when I’m jabbering about local food, or when the truth comes out that I like art more than academia. Indulge me as I modulate on a few things things my inner romantic is loving. I'm not even going to local food, promise.
- Romance(obvious, I know). Two plus months married, and I am still baffled that Walker likes me, let alone loves me. That comfort in being wanted by someone you want---it's all because of His love.
I'm sure you've lately heard about that ordinary girl meeting a prince, falling in love; someday she will be the real life queen of this country. How did they meet, again? Three words. St Andrews, baby. It happened to her. And far, far better, it happened to me. I met my prince.
- The best form of words. That would be poetry. I’m writing again, and suddenly my life is crowded with ideas and voices and this massive dam that wants to rush out on me. But, I must let the drops out one by one. That’s the joy of writing. Slow down to the point of irritation.
As with sleeping, I’m convinced there are three main writing positions: hunched forward, slouched back, and, my personal favorite, knees up. Today was spent largely in the last position. I told Walk I wanted to be an artist, because, frankly, who’d take stocking-and-heel feet on the floor, when you can have slippers on the chair?
Writing, of course, means trying to distract myself so the ideas can sneak in unnoticed and appear brilliant. I sat at the table at least 9 hours today. Type. Skim book (notice its title below). Read a food blog. Cheese break. Write. Can't write. Tell myself No good writing ever happens in the afternoon. Tell Walk that our house has its hair ruffled, and I like the artsiness of this mess.
He lovingly provides background antics and beats, and warms my apple cider. I'm spoiled.
- Hotels. You know how multiple choice questions usually have one stupid answer choice to make you laugh? Take this part of the list as that. It doesn’t fit. So, laugh at me. Keats secretly adored hotels, I'm sure of it. I never got a chance to tell you last week about my obsession with hotels. Fresh-edged bars of soap every day. The scent of the vacuum. The bed magically ordering itself. Cloudy pillows. The quiet. I love staying in hotels. And our two hotels last week were yin and yang in hotelland. Meet Hotel A. Sleek. Euro. Clean lines.
Can't you just smell the empty space? Laaaa!
Meet Hotel B. Ornate. Brocade. Old-World.
Hotels are fun. End of tangent.
4. Dinner parties. You better believe we’re pumping up big time for a dinner party tomorrow night. It’s in the ilk of the apple party, but of an orange tint. Walk asked me why all of our parties are themed after fruits and vegetables. Emersonian tendencies emerge once again, darling.
- Slowing Down. At the end of a day tucked away with my words, my inner romantic asks why I am always in such a hurry when the happiest times of my life are the still ones, the days when I have no to-do lists, when the early darkness wraps the house in a navy blue blanket.