Hi. I’m back.
Prepare to be not dazzled! In a perfect world I would break my silence with a triumphant return, with a dazzling gem of wit that made everyone realize just how much they had missed my writing.
That is not going to happen this evening. The sad fact is that I haven’t felt like writing anything recently– and that’s not the worst of it. I haven’t even felt like reading this past week. This is like a fish not being in the mood for swimming.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, I did not recoil at the thought of posting something here. I am about to perish from fatigue and by every reasonable accont I should be drifting off to sleep right now, but since I’m kind of in the mood to write something I am going to seize the opportunity, quite without prejudice regarding the astonishing absence of creative ideas that are springing to mind.
So I’ll pick a softball topic to ease myself back in. I’ll aim for a dazzling gem next time. For now, let me note that I turned thirty last week.
I am really, really happy about this. I never did get the hang of being a twenty-something. From what I understand, I was supposed to be spending my twenties having lots of casual sex, with perhaps a regrettable but blessedly short marriage thrown in for good measure. Also, I was supposed to be slowly declining from the apex of my physical beauty.
As it transpires, I missed out on the casual sex scene, I never came remotely close to marriage, and I kept getting hotter. Granted, this wasn’t all that hard to do, as I was ugly as a child and merely nondescript during my college years. But these last few years I have been progressively developing a more pleasing form, and also my wardrobe has become more interesting, and also I met Hairdresser Jeff. Assuming this trajectory continues, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t, I should rival Helen of Troy by the time I’m seventy.
And, as far as I can tell, I’ve been an adult my entire life. As a child, the grownups would euphemistically describe me as mature, because it’s awfully mean to tell a little girl that she acts like a boring old woman. There was this one time in the third grade when, in a practical lesson on how to balance a checkbook, all the kids were given monopoly money and a catalog of toys to peruse. At the ripe old age of eight I decided to horde my fake money and not buy any of the imaginary crap in the catalog.
Fiscal conservativism at the age of eight. It’s a crying shame. The joie de vivre gene totally missed me. This was also the year I decided to stop watching cartoons (I felt that the contrived plots and stereotypical characters were insulting to my intelligence, though I didn’t have the vocabularly to articulate it that way), and the year that I started reading the paper each day.
This level of psychological sobriety is unnerving in a child. I was a total wet blanket. Allow that child to age a few decades, however, and suddenly her financial maturity and discriminating consumption of media and goods becomes admirable. I have finally reached the age where my wet-blanket-ness is an asset.
But, like someone half my age, I can still get by on three hours of sleep. Which is what I did last night, because I stayed up too late, as I was engaged in some casual sex. Or in solving a logic puzzle. (Only one of these explanations is correct, but I will permit my readers to select whichever they prefer, along the lines of the Choose Your Own Adventure model.) Due to last night’s dearth of sleep I am now quite ready for bed. Regular blogging updates should resume forthwith, however. Stay turned for the next decade’s worth of dazzling gems!