It was a real dry spell. I had nothing going on. There are so many directions the finger could point:
The Royal Wedding
The Brits know how to celebrate with elegance. It’s always Veuve, never prosecco. That commands my attention and affection. In the weeks leading up to and after 29 April, I was so in. I was into the dress. I was into the trees in Westminster Abbey. I was into Hot Harry. I was into Bea’s hat. I listened and read it all. I was riveted when the Current aired If These Walls Could Talk. I watched the entire Seamus O’Regan/David Furnish interview. I bought Hello, US, People, and my first ever issue of Maclean’s (sorry Andrew Coyne, I do love your tweets). I argued feverishly that Pippa, though lovely, did not overshadow the Queen, who looked like the sun in that splendid shade of yellow.
8 days of kale+cucumber, creamy cashew milk, and spicy lemonade. Misery. The first day, I was utterly convinced I would die. While many of you may rejoice in this sort of thing, my body is not meant to operate without some sort of stimulant, I assure you. I could barely see, so reading was out of the question. The end result? A deep distrust of green liquids and really nice skin.
It’s almost time to hit the links after a winter off. I’ve had to shop for new outfits, brush up at the driving range, and allocate time to fret about idea of being rushed by a faceless foursome of 50-something men, sighing with exasperation at my every missed chip.
Social marketing parties
Stella and Dot. The Pampered Chef. Arbonne. Everyone is doing it. These are the new tupperware parties, and boy, do they chew up a lot of my time. It’s hard to imagine life without my Rio Chandeliers, new apple slicer and R20 renewal serum, so please don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.
I won’t even mention the time I spend with my beautiful children, on my rewarding job, and taming Hamish, the toilet paper shredding westie, because I know you get the picture.
Finally on friday, something literary intrigued me again. A pull greater than Harry. It was something I read in a review for The Paris Wife. That the author was compelled to write it after reading Hemingway’s memoir, A Moveable Feast. That in the final pages, he writes of Hadley (his first of four wives), “I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.”
Such a sad idea, and there is nothing I love more than a doomed love story. I was off to my local Book City immediately. I’m on my way back.