good grief

the drive back to Town was snowy, all two hours, which is really fun when you have a bicycle strapped to the back of your car that is determined to come off [April fools, right?]. I didn't go right home. I stayed out in the western 'burbs and waited for the snow to stop, tried to write some lesson plans, did a little shopping for waterproof mascara, this magical stuff called eyeshadow with primer, and remember back to first semester freshman year and Psych 101 and the stages of grief included in the acronym DABDA made popular by Kübler-Ross in the late 1960's. The snow did finally stop, and it warmed up and the sun came out, and I thought since I was restless and had spent two hours in a car, plus another two hours writing plans I could probably stand to walk, and would do well to try to find trail system that I knew was nearby. And maybe wrestle the bike off the back of the car and take her for a spin. [Not going to lie - I was wishing that Bruce was around to walk with]

Ennui and restlessness are not to be confused, but I had them very scrambled. I tried explaining to someone once that I wanted to take up running not because I thought I would get any satisfaction out of running or for the physical benefits, but because I felt that, on days like this, by running, my body would be in sync, or at the very least, closer to the pace of my psyche. It was one of those days that I had the wrong sort of cable with me to charge the GPS, and I really couldn't remember who lived on that side of town to call for directions. And my car was full of stuff. Did I really want to leave it unattended? I didn't really know what I wanted so went home and mostly unloaded my car. And wrote some more plans.

The Lyd was overjoyed that I was home. She may not be a dog, but she's a good girl. And she follows me around like a dog...

One of the hardest parts about being with my family was that it wasn't really home. I told people I was going home for break to be with my family, but that, I realize, wasn't true. Yes, it was my room and my bed and my things, but what I found myself wanting was to be with people who weren't there. Or at the very least to know that if I called them and said hey, can you be here, it wouldn't be a two hour drive for them to get there. I wanted to sit in the desert, butterfly or orchid room of Phipps, or in front of the water lily or Nakashima in the art museum, or in the alcoves in the stacks of the main library that overlook the new dinosaur hall. I had a fleeting notion to chop my hair, donate the obligatory 10", and get a pixie cut. Fleeting. 

When I did finally come back to town, my great pearl of wisdom sat down with me. I told her I thought about the chop job. Jeanne all but held my hair in her hands and said, don't do that. Dye it pink. Get a tattoo. Pierce your ears again. But don't shear off your hair. 

A tattoo? Not the response I was expecting. These are the times people tell you not to do something drastic. So the hair is staying; it will need a trim sooner or later. But I need a few more inches on it before I can cut it and after the donation shape up it's still long enough to pull into a ponytail.