things i love (thursday)

A rack of Hervé Léger that gives me heart palpitations. One day. I’m (humbly) growing my collection of bandage dresses, one dress at a time.

+ Sorbet colored nails. Specifically newly acquired bottles of Essie’s “A Crewed Interest” and Revlon’s “Blue Lagoon.” One a beautiful pastel peach, the other the prettiest of light blues strewn with fine specks of glitter, both delicious against a tan. They remind me of summer, even when in a window-less office for eight hours. It’s amazing how color is so transformative and influential.

+ Back to being a working girl. Not that I ever stopped. While I enjoyed the flexibility that came with working as, essentially, a freelancer, I loved stepping foot into an office again, more. Sure, dressing up is part of the fun, but being around people – always buzzing, always brainstorming – and being physically part of something, is invigorating.

+ Bowls of fruit. Watermelon. Kiwi. Strawberries. All freshly diced and sliced to bring color and undeniable juiciness into the world. Sweet and tangy, all in a bit. This must be what summer in heaven tastes like.

+ Bellydancing. It feels so good to be a woman. So good. Did I tell you – my hip scarf never leaves my handbag.

+ Tropical floral prints. It’s all I see and all I want. Pencil skirts, dresses, bikinis. In an island print or darker, Peter Pilotti pattern, I have no discretion. I don’t think I’ve ever loved – nonetheless liked – a trend so much. Zara and Webster Miami for Target – you do me proud.

.   .   .

x

P.S.: A few weeks ago I was given the “Sunshine Award” by Kelly Ann – thank you love!

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just took my first bellydancing class.

I just took my first bellydancing class.

Actually, let me re-write that statement. It needs exclamation points to properly exude my current emotional state.

I just took my first bellydancing class!!

Two exclamations for good luck and emphasis (I like my things in even numbers). It was perhaps one of the best workouts of my life, not to mention, a chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. Shoulders. Chest. Hips. Thighs. I felt it – truly felt it – from head to toe.

That’s the beauty of all things which make me feel flexible, bendy, and powerful. I can control my body and how it moves; slight hits, elongated snake arms, tiny staccato shimmies, or drawn-out figure eights. Sensual? Or coy? Muscles burn, but I can’t help but want to keep going. Push through. I can do it.

The teacher – probably in her late forties – was beautiful. Exotic, serene, and simply beautiful. I couldn’t stop watching her. Even before she took her position up front, even before I knew who she was, I knew who she was. There she was, a crochet sarong – demure in a sea of brightly colored and well-ornamented waists – tied low on her hips. She was blessed with one of those small frames that couldn’t be overlooked no matter how petite she seemed; there was a presence about her. Commanding. Enticing. Knowing. Perhaps it was the waist-length hair, waves slightly frizzed from the humidity and sweat, pulled half up, half down. Au naturel. Or maybe it was those wide doe eyes; she’d occasionally wink as she looked about the studio at her students.

You could only imagine my surprise when she singled me out. “You’re a dancer, right?” She paused only to smile. “I can tell.”

I didn’t even get to answer.

But what I did get to do, however, was buy myself a hip scarf. It’s something I’ve wanted for the longest time and finally have; silly? Perhaps. Little things make me happy. The only difficult part was choosing; there were so many options. Lavender. A deep purple. Blues. Bright kelly greens. White. Silver or gold coins? Nearly every color and combination piled before me on the wooden table, each neatly folded in their respective plastic bags. There wasn’t any orange scarves, though.

The black one, strewn with gold beads and gold coins, came home with me tonight.

.   .   .

x

“all the world is birthday cake, so take a piece, but not too much.” – george harrison

It’d be safe to say that nearly everyone else I know (even those acquaintances you didn’t think actually knew you – I blame the ever omniscient Facebook) seems to know when my birthday is except me.

It’s a good thing; it means one less thing for me to remember. More room in the brain for things like, say, accounting caca come exams. It works out fabulously.

I find it such a vain thing to indulge in birthdays. We celebrate our existence everyday – or should, rather; too many people simply go about their daily lives without ambitions or excitement when they should be living. I love Monday mornings. I love Wednesdays. Tuesday nights. Lazy Sunday afternoons, just in time for brunch. Birthdays have lost their charm for me around high school – who am I to parade around in a tiara*?

Humor me. I love a little more attention as much as the next human being, but to claim an entire day for me, myself, and I? I’m hardly deserving of it. It’s not to say I won’t appreciate the extra effort someone puts out for me on the big B-Day. I just don’t deserve it.

BUT here’s the catch. There always is a but clause. This is the year I shed the horrible -teen suffix. One year makes all the difference; with 20 comes more credibility and respect. I refuse to believe that wisdom comes with age (nothing is ever so black and white), but society always will; the youth are undermined, overlooked. Sometimes for good reason, but more often than not, not.

Here is a fond good-bye to the era of the teens. No tears, nothing bittersweet. You showed me a good time, you taught me well. I lived, learned, and danced my way through to this day, now. Open arms to welcome the big two-oh. With the best of girlfriends, and dressed to kill.

Here’s to the last few days of nineteen.

.   .   .

Editor’s Asides:

*If a diamond one, however, I should hardly object.

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dreams for an insomniac

.   .   .

x

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love letter to march

Yet another week that hints of summer. 70 degrees – nearly reaching the 80s – again in New Jersey. I forget winter ever existed, my sweaters buried deep beneath colorful. Sheer. Floaty. Pretty.

March 2012. It’s not quite over, and it has already been marked in the books as most loved month, to be remembered forever.

Thank you, universe, for giving us the sun and breezy summer nights. Thank you, for bringing us out of the grey with all the heat, energy, and love we could spare.

.   .   .

x

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