This isn’t a riff on sun block. It’s maybe not a riff at all. Just a discovery. It’s not writer’s block that gets me. Ideas are plentiful. Low-hanging fruit. It’s just that before my fingertips brush the skin, I kill the idea. Pluck the peach, toss it to the ground. Let the squirrels finish it off.
walking the dog, taking my own picture. Hair by Peaches.
In therapy last week—oh by the way, I quit my new daddy-figure therapist and returned to my former gal, a lovely petite Italian Jewess who’s never heard of Damages but knows who Charlize Theron is. We talk about dreams and my favorite TV shows, see. And even though it’s rule #3,257 in the earth’s handbook of what not to do, I tell you anyway: I had this dream that Charlize and I were BFF, shopping at Lancome together. Well, she was shopping, and I was watching. She spent $3,990. Shocker, right? The kicker was that I wasn’t jealous of her. AT ALL. We’re talking me and jealousy, and Charlize Theron! What a good dream that was. I was so overcome with my confidence and maturity that I ached to blog about it. Too bad she didn’t want me to. But then I woke up! Sometimes this is a good thing.
I’ll never know if it was my decidedly and intentionally un-Primal birthday dinner—a heaping steaming plate of enchiladas mole and a margarita (salt, rocks)—or the PMS.
Maybe it was my unrealistic expectations—an old childhood wish of being swept off my feet in some quirky, indie way—or the growing unease—read: plummeting self-esteem—I’ve been experiencing lately.
