My life is constrained in hundreds of ways and will be for years as my son grows up and my wife and I grow older. ~ Chris Huntington
Maybe it’s the post-Thanksgiving blahs. Maybe it’s the prospect of a two-hour delay tomorrow morning because of wintry mix, which sounds like an excellent breakfast cereal but is definitely not something you want school buses driving through in the morning. Or maybe it’s just that I have been writing all day. Like, a lot. My fingertips are sore. I love my job, I really do, but there are days when the words are sticky – they don’t come without effort. Like, a lot. Whatever the reason, this is going to be short.
I listened to a CD in the car while waiting for the boys to be dropped off at the bus stop and this song played:
For two minutes and 54 seconds I was sixteen and standing in a hot, dusty ring while my friend and her horse, who was named for the song, danced around me with looks of concentration on their faces. Today was a cold day, and gray as December, and there I was in my well-worn minivan, a nigh middle-aged woman with dinner to cook and laundry to do and children to account for, feeling, for two minutes, sweaty and sticky and smudged with dust, just like I was every day, every summer when I was a teenager. It made coming home to a dog mess that much more bearable.
It’s a good song.
And that’s all I’ve got. I should walk that dog and go to bed, but I won’t. I’m going to watch TV and eat some potato chips. Because tomorrow school is delayed and when the alarm rings I can go pblpwhew at it. And outside the wintry mix will fall.