The weather is teasing me; it’s hinting at a beautiful spring. I want to believe it, but I know it’s probably not ready. It won’t be ready for a while, I’ve heard.
Yesterday, I read on the roof. Today, I ate chocolate and accomplished some things. I thought of Grandmother and how she used to call days like today “Hallmark Holidays”. I told people that I will probably never be someone who cares deeply about my Valentine’s Day schedule, but if they wanted to give me candy I would eat it happily. Then they told me I’d change my mind if I was a half of some romantic whole.
Most days make me reflect. I don’t measure my years by February 14, though.
I wore my yoga pants backwards the other day; I was in a rush. A little boy and his father walked behind me. “That place is so crowded,” the little boy said his to dad as they passed a bar. “Do you think it’s loud in there?”
“Yes, it’s loud in there.”
I could tell the little boy stopped for a step. I pulled up my pants, not knowing what was going on with the normally obedient pink waistband.
The boy started walking again and then asked: “Is it loud where we’re going?”
His father responded with an obvious spring in his step. “Yes, it will be loud. You’ll love it. Hurry up; let’s make this light!” They hurried across the street as I walked into the studio. The lights were off.
I didn’t know where they were going; I only knew it had something to do with sports. I took my boots off, felt the cold, damp carpet beneath my toes, was happy I knew to take my socks off immediately, and thought about being in a rush.
I noticed my pants were backwards halfway through class; I wished it hadn’t, but discovering it when I did changed the hour more than I want to admit.