Quite a while ago - could it have been this summer? - Geewits did a post consisting of her thoughts on five different words and offered to give five words to whoever wanted them.
I did - hey, easy post eh?
She gave me the words; being me, I promptly ignored them. I'm good at ignoring stuff, it's my talent.
But I've finally gotten to it, so here we go...
There's nothing better than a good nap. On a Saturday afternoon. On the couch. After a nice cup of tea. In front of the fire. Oh yeah.
Or in bed in the summertime with cool sheets and nekkid butt. Or on a hammock.. or or or....
And it's ever so easy to just slip away that way - get comfy and you're off.
So why don't I just do more of it? I often feel like having a nap (at work, surprise surprise) but even on weekends, I rarely give in. Some sort of guilt thing I suppose. I am very good at sitting around doing nothing (another talent! just ask Mr. Jazz), but somehow, napping just seems too self indulgent. I'm not getting anything done (yes, this is a paradox for someone who can stare into space for 30 minutes at at time), but it seems I should at least be trying to vacuum or read or watch trash TV.
Image from the Firstpeople website
I'd love to sail. I would. I adore water - especially the ocean. But for some reason I rarely clamber into (onto?) anything bigger than a canoe (where I tend to go around in circles) or a pedal boat - and we all know how that turned out. Which might explain why I'm never invited on anyone's boat. That or the fact that I don't know anyone with a boat bigger than a pedal boat... Unless of course they're all hiding their yachts from me. Yacht. What a perfectly bizarre word that is. And why don't they spell it Yat?
I've never been. But it's on the list - as are so many other places. The world is so huge, life is so short. I'm sure I'll die before I see it all - or even most of it. I'm thankful to have travelled as much as I have, to have seen Ecuador and Nepal and Vietnam among other places. But I haven't even set foot in Africa, I've never seen Italy or Spain or Portugal. That's sort of sad.
Fact is, nowadays I tend to prefer traveling to see friends I rarely get to see. Maybe it's age creeping up on me (though most days I feel as if rather than creeping, it's roaring towards me like an 18 wheeler on the highway) but keeping in contact takes precedence over seeing new places. At this point anyway. I'm sure I'll see Italy eventually - and it won't be on a 15 cities, 10 days tour - but before then I'll no doubt see friends in Belgium, France, Australia and the US several times.
This had nothing to do with Italy right? Damn.
Remember Elaine on Seinfeld? 'Nuff said.
Ok, I'm nowhere near that bad, I do dance to the beat rather than to the beat of my own drummer, but I've never felt comfortable dancing. Perhaps because I'm an introvert, dancing makes me feel uncomfortable. Wrong. Outside myself. Just somehow off. It just makes me uncomfortable dammit!
I've felt like taking dance classes pretty often over the years though. Perhaps because having the steps means you know what to do, how and when to do it. And not only do you not make a total fool of yourself, you impress the hell out of everyone else. Impressing the hell out of everyone would be good.
I love them. I love the shape of them, I love the colours of them, I love their fragility and their strength. I love their variety.
I also love to eat them. Unfortunately, they don't return that particular lovin'.
For some reason, over the past few years I've developed difficulty digesting eggs. Not eggs used in cooking things like crepes or cake. Eggs as eggs. In some forms more than others. Omelets do not agree with me. At all. Nor do scrambled eggs. Fried eggs go over much easier (rereading this I just realized there's a pun there! I'm clever I am, or would be if I realized I was making a pun...), as do hard boiled. Egg salad sandwiches. Mmmmm. Poached seems to work-ish. But none of them leave my stomach feeling deliriously happy and content for more than half an hour. I react worse to some forms of cooked eggs. Is it the IBS? Maybe. Is this too much information? No doubt.
But as my love cannot be denied, I sometimes eat them anyway. That half hour of delirious happiness is worth the subsequent feelings of "why do you hate me so!!". Sometimes.