I was supposed to be posting this from New York City. It was
going to be some inexplicably inspired and long (because long always seems
better than short…which I know isn’t true, especially with words, but seem to
strive for all the same) retrospective of my 40th year on this
planet, which, poetically, began in the New York City subway, wearing my
favorite dress and black leather zip-up boots, after a night out on the town, complete with
theatre, vegan cuisine and crinkly-crunchy weather.
It was going to be my third draft. The first scrawled
fluidly and censor-free in my Moleskine, with a juicy pen purchased at Kate’s
Paperie on Broome Street. The second typed out on my MacBook Air while sipping
Harney & Sons, a rooibos blend, at The Smile in the East Village (which was
top of my list of places to visit, right after Moksha Yoga NYC where I planned
to do a Facebook check-in with some Zen-ish Instagram for my little world to
see). The third, would be a crisply crafted, carefully edited gem (losing the
length but not the love) posted before heading to hear live music at The
Living Room and reread sometime the next day after one of my six readers left a
comment, confirming that I indeed, still exist.
Instead, it’s 1130pm and I'm standing at my laptop (because I’ve
been sitting on the couch for three days) still in Monday’s PJs, just now
realizing the cold meds I’ve been taking may decongest me but they also depress
me. And that even if Mother Nature hadn’t wielded her irreconcilable wand and
rained down thunder and lightening on the whole of Manhattan, I would still,
likely, be posting some scrambled attempt at my one-blog-a-month, right now, at 1141pm.
Truthfully, I toyed with posting an entry from 2005.
Why didn’t I?
Because I know all six of you love me.
And, because I have to believe that creating something, even a last-minute-medicated-far-from-perfect-first-draft, is better than creating nothing at all.
