Thursday, April 02, 2009

Right on schedule, same as every year, I find myself bored of everything in the world, tired of being cold and sick, of looking at the same things and eating in the same places and listening to everyone in the greater metropolitan area whine about the weather. There's always a moment, when I'm walking up to catch the bus to my regular haunts, where I pause in the middle of huffing up a big steep hill and look back over Lake Union and bridges and boats, and that moment settles my ruffled disposition. But by the time I reach the top of the hill I usually find that the fists have settled back in my hands and I am irritated and restless all over again. Even a cheerful clump of daffodils nodding along the sidewalk can't quite smooth out my crumpled forehead.

What I want, of course, is an adventure, to suddenly disappear to somewhere in Spain where all the girls wear colorful skirts and everyone has a red sash in their closet, to move to Mongolia and change my name to Lucy and learn how to construct a yurt. Discover a new tiny species of frog in a jungle somewhere or finally learn to milk a cow or stumble across a hidden cache of buttercups just waiting to stain shy chins yellow. Something.

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