Remember that time that I almost sweat my hypothetical balls off because Rhode Island experienced a freak heat wave in the middle of April?
Yeah, so do I.
The weather here has been cooky. Kooky? Hm. I'm never sure how to spell that word; not that I have to do it that often. But anyway, it's been weird. Over the past week, the temperature has shot up to the high 80's/low 90's, taking everyone by surprise. Some people flourish in this weather. Me? There's a reason I chose to attend a school in New England. I can handle 65 - 70 degrees. 75 is the max. Anything over that, and I'm wishing that indecent exposure wasn't a crime.
But it got me thinking. On a day like today, I can't help but think about how .. powerless we are. We like to think we're in control of every aspect of our lives: who we talk to, what we eat, what to wear, who to sleep with, whatever. But, at the end of the day, we're pushed out of the pilot's seat and told to enjoy the ride.
We can't control the weather, for instance. If I could, I would turn the temperature down just a notch. Okay, more like a lot of notches. But I can't. No one can. We just have to make do and adjust and keep on trucking. Because it's those random things that keep life interesting. Keep us on our toes.
I don't know about you, but I have really weak ankles and knees, meaning I will never be a ballerina. Staying on my toes constantly does wear down the joints, and eventually, my legs give out and I collapse to the ground.
But I've realized .. it's okay. It's okay to collapse and fall. It's okay to even want to stay down on the ground for a little while, to recooperate. It's okay to cry, to complain, to whine about it, to lay back and accept defeat for a little while. But not indefinitely.
Eventually, you get up. You curse your weak ankles and knees and you try again.
And if you find yourself in the middle of a heat wave, find yourself a fan and forget the ballet all together.
- May (you have fun during the proverbial dance).
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About Me
- May
- She is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with a hint of MoMA and the Whitney. She is Walt Whitman's "Myself" in "Song of Myself." She is an incomplete stanza of a finished poem. She is the subtitle at the bottom of the screen of a foreign film, spelled wrong. She is the low E string of a guitar. She is the G chord on a piano. She is the Tube, the NY Subway System, the T, the Metro, and everything in between. She is one of the grains of sand on a beach, anywhere in the world. She is the needle, injecting ink into someone's skin. She is the bubble racing from the bottom of a pint of Guinness. She is the Flat Iron building. She is the imaginary film in your digital camera. She is the musty smell of an old book you found in the back of a dusty bookstore. She is not one but two twins of the Gemini sign. She is the middle line at the bottom of the peace sign. She is the "you" when Paul McCartney sings "All you need is love." She is her. No one else.
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