Here I sit with a glass of wine, pensive after a strange weekend. My blue-eyed prince sits at his computer with his feet propped up on a fuzzy kitty bed to stay warm. He is in the process of making cajun red beans and rice for tomorrow's dinner, and it bubbles fragrantly on the stove.
I think I'll make some tea once this wine is gone.
The city is in a strange state. The winter has been very mild and the snow is melting, revealing, in chronological order, the detritus of three months. People aren't sure which coats to put on, whether they should wear the acrylic or the wool scarf, or if Wellingtons are in order. I saw a girl last Thursday morning wearing earmuffs, a down jacket and a pair of jean shorts over hose (not tights) and mid-calf boots.
This is the beginning of the last week of my twenties, and what do I have planned? A presentation (tomorrow) and five exams (Thursday and Friday). Passing a level of intensive French seems like a pretty awesome way to celebrate year the thirtieth, especially since I swore on my 29th birthday that the following year would be devoted to French. And thus, after much travail and paperwork, it is.
Yesterday morning, I culled about a third of all of my Facebook "friends." Now I'm left with my real friends, people I interact with on a daily basis, good connections, particularly interesting acquaintances and family members. I feel like I've almost completely severed myself from the dance milieu in my old city, for good. And it is good. Now I shed the old skin in preparation for a new decade. I heard from somewhere that decade three is one of the most surprising and amazing for women, since they've left the self-loathing, wondering and questioning of their early adulthood behind and are settling into who they really are. They're still beautiful, and they know what they want.
I'm excited about dance.
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