April sort of passed me by. I spent, what? four days in NY? and then spent the rest of the month recovering from it one way or another. But now it's May and I will try, try again. A week ago I did a rather shabby job of telling a story at a show put together by my delightful friend Katy. To be fair, I was running a low fever at the time. I did wear a new dress and difficult shoes; under the circumstances, that was about as much elan as I could bring to bear. Now, solidly seven days later, I am suffering from a particular malaise entitled "Will I EVER Stop Blowing My Nose?" I walk around feeling such an enormous amount better, but not actually well. I think you aren't really well until you stop noticing your incremental improvements. I go about my tasks slightly dizzy and with a perpetual congestion headache, but encouraged that I am able to get off the sofa for long stretches of time.
Today, for instance, I managed to do the laundry which has been sitting in a heap on my bedroom floor for a week. It was (and is) an extravagantly beautiful day, so it felt quite Cinderella-esque to be at the laundromat while the rest of the populous wandered up and down the street--closed to traffic--enjoying some kind of Cinco de Mayo festival (though why they would have it on the 6th, I couldn't tell you) and, one imagines, eating organic ice cream. Still, it is a great relief to have it done at last and to boldly face a new tomorrow with a dizzying selection of clean underwear. Though I haven't the slightest doubt that I will face tomorrow morning with the traditional dread, please rest assured that my loins shall be most hygienically girded for the work week to come.
Meanwhile, as I lay feverish and depressed (sternly forbidding myself to cry for fear that the resulting supplementary congestion might actually cause my head to explode), my upstairs neighbors had a baby. The simultaneity of these events strikes me as Philosophically Meaningful in some sort of way, but perhaps I delude myself. Maybe it would have only been Meaningful if I had actually been dying, rather than merely very sad with a bad cold. I leave it for you to ponder. Currently, while he is extremely small, I feel quite big-hearted toward him. Obviously, history has already shown us what it will be like when he gets big enough to be audible. I am hopeful that I will be madly in love and Elsewhere by then. It is always possible. Weirdly, last night at a restaurant I used to frequent, I encountered the manager as I was leaving. "Ah!" he said, "You look gorgeous! I didn't recognize you!" [I have been puzzling over whether to be flattered or insulted by this.] "Are you married?" Generally, in this sort of exchange, the next question is, "How are you?" not "Are you married?" but perhaps it's different in France. I said,"No. But someday. Someday." and he said, "I am sure." And, really, he looked sure. So that makes one of us.
Just now, as I gazed out the window full of poetic resolve to enjoy my lovely apartment as long and as fully as I can [read: before the tyranny of the infant upstairs takes hold], a veritable flock of skinny jeans weekended their way down the sidewalk opposite. Ah, boys. However do you get your big feet through the ankle holes?
So many philosophical questions for one day.
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