Sunday, April 25, 2010

Contemplations on 40 years

It had been a lovely day, bright and warm enough.  The evening settled snuggly in and the air remained comfortable.  Slowly, our friends began to materialize.  Barcrofters first of course.  The ladies all in black, the men in various stages of dapper dressing.  The bar was open, the food was being passed and the bass in Kesha's latest song thumped in the background.  Tim was forty and we were celebrating.

I thought I would know more by now.  Tim is forty and I am thirty-nine.  I thought we would feel more responsible, more mature.  There we were, after midnight, in a bar.... as I danced Tim threw back shots.  Really?  This is where we are?  Of course, THIS is not every Friday night.  Still.

We pay bills, and taxes.  We lease cars and make tuition payments.  We change the air filters in our homes and have regular dental check ups.  Yet, where is the wisdom?  Where is the knowledge that I thought I would possess by now?

I still use acne medication.  I've been known to swear like a sailor and drink like a fish.  I still like to match my shoes with my outfit.

As the evening wore on, I weaved in and out of conversations and collections of friends... work friends, college buddies, neighbors, confidantes.   These are the people who know us best.  What did they think of a 40 year old Tim doing shots?  Me, outdancing twentysomethings.... are we where we are supposed to be by now?

When I wake up and feel old enough, will it be too late?  And for what?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

California

The hills were verdant.  Like something out of East of Eden.  Rolling and lush, speckled here and there with cheery mustard plants.  Calla lillies grew in the ditches.  Camelia blossoms weighted down their branches and oranges hung heavy on the bough.

California.  Even in the pouring rain, its beauty could not be dampened.

Of course, the day we held reign, the sun sparkled like a prism and the sky seemed to yawn out before us, endless in its blue perfection.  We dressed up, as we are wont to do.  Southern Ladies.  We both wore skirts, my mother and I.  Our first stop on our vineyard tour was Jordan.  Even the ripe sonoma countryside could not prepare us for the beauty of Jordan; a french villa set in the heart of the Russian River Valley.  Live oaks bent their gnarled branches down to the immaculately trimmed lawn.  In the distance, hill after hill of vines and mustard.  We felt transported, plucked and placed in Burgundy.  The tasting itself was as much a culinary treat as one for an oenophile.  My mother gushed, overwhelmed by the luxury.

California does that to me... overwhelms my senses.  I want to forget time and place and succumb to the environment, embrace the different clime, the vibe.  I feel brazen in California.  I wear my hair parted on the opposite side, use eyeliner and unbutton my blouse a little lower.

As the temperatures varies here, and the sun darts behind the omnipresent spring clouds, I capitulate and dream, wish, wonder... California, I hear your Siren call.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Spring

Spring is the ficklest of seasons.  Even as birds sing and red buds burst forth, the air is chilled.  I, sunburned from a week in the Caribbean, stare longingly out the window as tulips and cherry blossoms dispatch their petals to the winds.

The breezes in Jamaica were a far cry from these chilly gusts.  The clouds had not yet lifted from the highest peaks on the island when we boarded the bus to take us to our private beach.  The skinny Jamaican girls flirted and chided as we wove through the countryside just outside of Ocho Rios.  Far from the mangy goats and dirty children, we, the bloated pasty americans from the gaudy cruise ship, rushed out onto the golden sands.  No beggars here.  No reefer.  Plenty of rum punch and jerk chicken and helpful attendants who at once seemed both friendly and weary with us.  The sea was an opal, shimmering under the sun's gaze.  In the distance, the lush rainforest dropped into the water.  I closed my eyes and wished I could always remain so warm, so satisfied, so satiated.

I skip out the door and barely get down the steps before I return to the house for a sweater.  The cheerful sun has tricked me once again.  Why are the birds singing so gaily in this chilly weather?  The daffodils bob their gentle bonnets in the wind as I wrap my arms around myself.  I long for Jamaica.  Or at least June.