Every color here is severe this morning--the world is dripping in either a very light downpour or extremely heavy mist. I wake up depressed this morning, a different shade of blue--still have the cold and spent last night exchanging texts with yet another guy that I wish I hadn't given my number to. My shrink would have theories on how I draw these guys, but I know it's just plain old-fashioned--my mother told me to play nice with everyone, especially the losers, and now that's all that's left.
So I wake up this morning way too damn early, and can't get back to sleep. I pad out into the living room with a couple of pillows and blankets and curl up and watch a German girl try to fit in with a bunch of Norweigens. (Prolly spelled that wrong--who cares, really.) It's sweet and simple and sad and wonderful all at once. I turn off the telly around 8 and lie there, knowing that I have to get dressed and get the laundry downstairs.
I don't want to.
I move about the apartment gathering stuff, arguing with my boss and stupid men (not a statement that ALL men are stupid, just referring to the stupid ones among the men), getting dressed, sneezing, weeping. Finally everything is together. I'm fat in my jeans and it's going to be wet out there.
I drop off the laundry, though, and take one damn step at a time up Moraga/Home.
I overcame the desire to want to be somewhere, anywhere else. I overcame the desire on a minute-by-minute basis to go back down 9th to Starbucks and get a venti coffee with creme and shooger and gooey calories in it, complete with a pastry. With my cold, I had to stop several times. I accepted that. I wept some more. And I stood in the mist and allowed myself a good drenching.
I walked around the summit and back down, feeling my muscles unkink in gratitude. They weren't necessarily grateful that I was going DOWNHILL, but more along the lines that I remembered to use them at all. No problem, guys. Thanks for serving me well, today. I took Moraga to 8th and came down 8th through the fancy little cottages and brick and bottle-brush trees in pink and red and all of the wet, cool GREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN...it was as though my soul drank or cleansed or rinsed or did something to rid itself of the intense dirt and desert of what I fight.
Intensity always works. :) Especially in color.