2004-12-23 - 7:09 a.m.
That thing outside my front door looks suspiciously like a snow bank.
I know the cold air will blatantly steal any warm breath from my protesting lungs, and I know that the snow does not crunch, it squeaks. Like certain kinds of sands under bare feet. Sniffly and sneezy, trudging down the alley, the slippery bits of broken glass blanketed by slippery bits of broken ice. They slide under the weight of my shoes.
Squeak, squeak.
(But would you believe, I know who I am?)
It's necessary to wear the most holiday-ish thing you own on the last day you work before Christmas. Therefore I rooted around and dug out a reddish sweater from my closet. It lacks sequins, bows, applique's of reindeer and angels, and tinkly jingle bells (you could hear that one lady at work coming from a mile off), it's more maroon than red, and I also lack shimmery lipstick and jingly Christmas jewelry, but I feel sufficiently...holidayed. And relieved there is nothing sewn to the front of my sweater involving snowmen nor attached to my ears involving elves.
It's a short day, I shall be at the agency alone, and then off to get the apartment drama cleaned up. Hoping I will be able to move the first weekend of the year, and hoping that will be my last move for the remainder of said year.
I feel particularly happy and secure this morning. Things can be shiny. And I love it.
What's the Cat Power song? "I am the snow, I am the snow, I happen to be...the snow."
