Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Tres chic? Non!

I will never be an elegant woman.
I've long suspected as much, but tonight I confirmed it. The epiphany came to me as I was walking Indy, my dog. First, there's no way to elegantly walk an exuberant, leash-tugging, wildly panting schnauzer.
I did a brisk head to toe appraisal: this morning's eyeshadow smeared across my eyelids; layers of hair lofting upward with every gust of wind; nails mostly OK, but darned if I can give up biting my thumbnails.
And my outfit? Well, that sealed the deal. One T-shirt featuring a giant chicken looming over the Capitol building. Two blue socks, one printed with little dog pawprints (cute, yes - but not elegant), the other plain blue. The battered gray sneakers I call my Chuckie Finsters, because one of them squeaks with every step, just like the shoes of the "Rugrats" character.
The entire ensemble was accented nicely by the small orange bag I carried, filled with... Well, I was walking a dog; you figure it out.
Once upon a time I dreamed wistfully of acquiring elegance. I wanted to sweep into a room gracefully, more like a swan, less like Jerry Lewis. I wanted to be as calm as a reflecting pool, lithe as a reed, with a musical speaking voice and manners to fit all occasions, a regular Yooper Meryl Streep.
And therein lies my quandry. I am 100 percent Yooper, zero percent Streep.
Truthfully, I like the idea of elegance more than the practice of it. I don't like wearing high heels, I feel like an imposter when my hair is all done up, and I'm lousy at making charming small talk. I'd rather pull on my Eeyore pajama bottoms and Phil Collins T-shirt and eat ice cream right out of the carton than slip into a too-tight silk gown and pinchy shoes and nibble caviar on crackers.
I'm not less than just because I lack certain ladylike attributes. I may be more crass than class, but what you see is the truest, realest me. I may not be at the top of anyone's invite list for a cocktail party, but if someone's ordering pizza and rustling up a game of dominoes, I'm your girl. Especially if I can come over wearing my Eeyore jammie pants and Phil shirt.


Sunday, August 7, 2011

One leaf at a time

I'm nursing a resentment against leaves.
Not the emerald green leaves fluttering above me on the trees; no, it's the quitters I begrudge, the crispy orange-brown defectors already scattered across the sidewalks, crunching under my sneakers as I walk with my dog Indy.
That's August for you, though. August, the hand at your back pushing reluctant you toward September, the end of summer. August has never been my friend. As a child it meant the end of schedule-free days spent reading, playing Barbies and riding my bike, and a return to school, where I was an awkward, uncomfortable misfit.
As an adult it meant folding my own children back into the routine of early to bed, early to rise, juice boxes, clean socks and homework.
This year August will mark my younger daughter's departure for college in Minnesota. I've been trying to imagine what it's going to feel like to hug her goodbye and leave her behind, an eight-hour drive away. I happen to be blessed with an Academy Award-worthy imagination, but I still can't picture how that's going to feel.
But about those leaves. Yesterday I woke for the day at 6:30 a.m., an unprecedented event for a Saturday. I took Indy for a walk down by the lake and saw the pink sun morph into white, felt the cool breeze surrender to warmer, humid air. A perfect summer morning, of not for those accursed leaves.
"Look at this," I grumbled to Indy, who ignored me. He doesn't share my distaste for the premature leaf drop. To him it's just one more interesting thing on the ground to sniff. I looked up, thought I spotted an orange patch on a neighbor's tree, and felt my heart give its familiar pre-autumn sink.
Then, mercifully, my recovery thinking kicked in - specifically, One Day at a Time.
It's still summer, I reminded myself. It's going to be beach day. At this moment in time all is well. You're walking your four-legged best friend on a stellar summer morning. There's a fresh pot of coffee waiting at home, where your three beautiful children lie sleeping, all together under your roof for a little while longer. You're going to hang out with friends today. This day is all you're promised. Don't waste it mourning the chillier, leafier days that haven't arrived yet.
Fall is on the horizon, and winter not far behind it. But today, today I am alive and well, I'm barefoot, and my windows are wide open, with a fine summer breeze wafting in.
Rather than nurse a resentment, I'm going to sit on my porch and nurse an icy glass of lemonade. Just for today, it's summer!