Is it really possibly March?

For the first time in months, I walked to the subway today sans tights, in some seriously high strappy heels, and felt positively gleeful tottering about, new colt hesitant on the busy sidewalk, in something other than boots.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good boot, particularly of the shiny delicious leather ilk, and my ever-expanding collection attests to that affection.  High heeled black, low riding shiny, low buckled brown, high ankle, stripy rain: they line up like dutiful soldiers under my hanging skirts, ready and reporting for duty, ma'am!  But as you may have noticed *cough* I'm been somewhat absent this month, and my time in warmer climes has reminded my calves and toesies of the happiness of being unhampered by layers of material.  So I'm quite jolly at these first whispers of spring in New York, though, as a quick glance out the window confirms, I may have been too quick with the boot banishment.  Bare legs in the rain?  Oh Nancy. 

Well.  It's been quite a month.  In the twenty-nine days of February, I managed to make four separate trips, so my month zipped by with many hours spent on an airplane: NY to Kansas City; NY to Hawaii; NY to Detroit; and finally, NY to LA to Santa Barbara to Ojai Valley.  And when I wasn't ensconced in the latest Sky Mall offerings (which, solid gold, people, that magazine gives me endless delight.  A plant disguised as a litter box?  A full-sized Yeti for the garden?  A globe that opens up to reveal a hidden beer cooler?  Yes, yes and yes), I've had that little niggling annoyance, what is it again?  Something about billable hours?  It'll come it me. 

So much to tell, so little aptitude to tell it. 

Let's see.  Some girlfriends and I went to this mess of an Irish pub on Wednesday. Usually, this is a crew who feels quite strongly about their champagne, so I wrote a hesitant email suggesting that perhaps Paddy McO'Neils might be the best locale for our shindig since wine was likely not an option: "Buyer beware: I think it's Guinness or it's 'I said good day, sir!'" But one friend was insistent, so we found ourselves at a table tucked away in the sea of plaid, a touch incongruous in our suits and carefully applied lipstick.  But, getting with the program, we gleefully ordered up some pints of Bass and onion rings and my single friends started furiously whispering that there were some cute ones about.  Cute, maybe, but less than charming.  At one point in the night, this drunk guy wandered past our table, stopped, turned to eye each of us up and down, and slurred, "I've just got one word to say to you fancy ladies . . . .nicccceeee."  And stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. 

This morning it was all I could do to leave my closet.  I have a little stool tucked in there and I happily perched on it with my morning tea and admired the surroundings with the cat.  Shoeboxes! And everything hanging by color and type!  Suits over there on special hangers!  DK has been a dreamboat and spent this week organizing my closet.  [I know. Seriously.]  He ventured in on Monday and tsk-tsked over my "unused space" and too many hangers and "look at your shoes" which, I had formerly thought looked fine until I noticed that they were actually shoved on top of each other and covered in dust (see first paragraph) and all akimbo.  I usually abdicate and run when I see that organizing gleam in DK's eye, but I felt weirdly defensive and fragile to implied criticism and tried half-heartedly to shield the worst of it from him.  "It's fine! I've hung up everything! There's nothing to see here!" but the jig was up, as my scraggly sweater arm hanging past the shelf testified.  As god as his witness, my closet was going to be Improved. 

Two days later, and I think DK hung the moon.  My god, it is beautiful.  My pal K came over for dinner last night and she had barely taken off her coat before I shepherded her in to the bedroom and opened my closet door with a flourish.  "BEHOLD."  Ten minutes later, as I lovingly pointed out the cat bed tucked away on the second shelf (what? his favorite respite from the harried world of our apartment is my closet and we are nothing if not indulgent to Herr Topo's desires) and the way the light just caught the undulating waves of fabric, DK found us to hand us some wine. The three of us stood in there for a while longer, thoughtfully sipping, and admiring before I realized it was 8:30 and I hadn't started cooking. 

That's all I got.  I need to summon the strength to write two long emails and then make for the hills.  Tonight is spa night with my sister (Hooray!) and I signed up for a massage, but am now torn about whether I should call and plead to please instead get a facial.  Damn this puritanical streak that makes me feel like I should be doing something productive, like battling those ever encroaching wrinkles . . . and yet, massage? It calls to me, particularly since I got this new fancy ergonomic chair at work that, ironically, is killing me and I find myself clutching the small of my back and wincing when I get up to go to the printer.  So to fight the good fight of the pores or to indulge in some lower back kneading?  Oh these tough decisions.

Happy weekend.  I've missed this place. 

Comments

[Susan]

Welcome back! It sounds like a whirlwind, though Hawaii and Ojai Valley don't sound particularly taxing . . .

And I hope you massaged! The "extraction" process from the facial always stresses me out more than any benefit I get -- deep tissue massage all the way.

[AmK]

It's so funny/odd--we are having such opposite New York sentiments right now. And that's good. You keep me slightly more on the end of chipper and slightly less on the end of homicidal.

I'm envious of your massage because I do love me a hot rock massage, every time.

[Nancy]

Though as I sit here at my desk, again at midnight, dinner forgotten, waiting to hear comments from a partner on a memo I had to pound out this evening, I daydream of small towns in Vermont, of walks I'd take at dusk. Perhaps I could hang out a shingle there. ("Corporate Defense Litigator: Country Style?")

New York I like, I just wish I got to see it more.

[AmK]

Perhaps when it's so cold MY EARS FALL OFF and I'm shoveling snow or horse poop or chasing the rogue sheep that escaped from the next house over (which is, by no means, actually "next door") I'll be like

OH YEAH. New York? Not so bad after all. Because lord knows there ain't no Aveda in them there parts of town.

But a walk on a country road at dusk sounds, as the natives are want to say, mighty nice. Indeed.