Kid President

It’s a slow day. I’m not so much writing as I am looking at the clock above my document and wondering if it might be in everyone’s best interest if I close down for the day. Perhaps it’s the weather. Perhaps it’s the hairy black spider I found on my husband’s side of the bed this morning; the little beast scared me half to death before I’d even a chance to sit down for a proper pee. Probably, though, it’s just the weather. I am sensitive like this. I look out my window and see a nimbus laden sky talking some big talk but has yet to deliver. I hope for rain. We had a bit last night, and when I woke up everything was wet and rinsed and even the lawn sparkled in its own way, an aristocratic ambivalence.

The weekend should be lovely. My husband runs his third marathon this year on Sunday. I am astoundingly proud of him. Me, I will avoid running at all cost; even running behind, if I can. It takes a certain sort of masochistic lunacy, albeit a determined lunacy, to tell yourself “Okay, body, we’re going to do this now. Yep, 26.2 miles. Okay, here goes” and then choose not to veer off the path when no one’s looking. I would cheat. I would hail a cab or find the short cut or . . . you know, I probably just wouldn’t sign up in the first place. I love exercising. I go to the gym almost every day, and I find my serenity is waiting for me the moment I slip those earbuds in and wrap my fingers around the cold metal barbell. I go away. I go in. And I go out. But wherever I go, I am always better for having went. I am a happier woman, a better wife, and a funnier friend when I’ve had my daily allotment of endorphins. But there’s this thing. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe other people feel this way. Sometimes I will remember that I am a modest woman and no, you probably won’t ever see me wearing a shirt that bears my midriff or a skirt any higher than the middle of my thighs. So why, I ask myself, why do I push myself to such extremes. And I do – push myself to extremes. I work out like Mozart plays piano. Dun dun dun dun. Dun-dun-dun-DUNNNNN. What I’m saying is, I put much effort into keeping my shape firm and lean, and really the only person seeing it is me. There’s my husband of course, and yes he appreciates it all, but he is not a vain main, you see, and I am not lying when I say that truly he would still think me beautiful even if I had mashed-potato butt. No, really, he would. Scout’s honor. (Not an actual scout, however I abide by the code. Live long and prosper.) So, no, my career isn’t contingent on the number on my tailbone. It’s a 9, just in case you were curious. (I carry my weight below my bum, like little airplane pillows for it to rest on.) ANYWAY, exercise is good, but I could probably scale back some and it would be all right.

Oh dear  . . .

How did we get here? Truly I don’t know. I only meant to say hello, then suddenly my fingers were running amuck. I do actually have something very cool to share with you. Have you met Kid President? Oh, he’s very possibly the most precious boy I’ve never met. And smart. And a great dancer. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.

Enjoy the video, then pass it on to everyone you know. It will make them smile knowing there are people like this in our world.

Happy Weekend, Friends!

Wordy Wednesday

Dancing Boots

 

If I looked up too quickly, I knew it would be over.

And so I closed my eyes, squeezed them till I saw stars — or maybe I really did.

Toes pointed inward, my feet moved in sloppy ovals,

dancing.

Faster and faster to the music in my head.

 

On lavender’s pigment and nimbus’ laugh, I twirled, moving my arms up and down to see if I might fly.

Pink tulle tickled my thighs and bright blue boots slicked with rain carried me

upward and honest.

I liked honest; she smelled good.

Smiling until my cheeks throbbed for mercy, I spun.

I spun. I spun. I spin.

Try as you might, you could not stop me from spinning; for even the earth decided at that moment to go stagnant and still and stuffy,

I would remain in motion. My delicious ankles

like centrifuges, turning this body, lithe and nimble,

into sun’s gleam, into cat’s purr, into tree’s whisper.

And my boots so, so blue . . . can you see them? They almost tasted melancholy.

Almost,

but not quite.

Because blue is just blue even if love does not requite.

Press on and laugh.

There was never a foe to defeat laughter. She is cynosure;

an intoxicating fragrance given freely, without barter.

I make her mine. All mine.

Her and those boots, they belong to me. And if you could be brave,

your boots will know.