A woman, alone, in a French cafe. (Daydreams of Paris - unending.)
Thirty minutes to myself this morning before my music class begins. The wee boy is fighting a bug that seems to mostly be gone. It was just a short-lived fever that left him less energetic than usual and gave us a bit of a rough night ("I'm hot! I'm cold! I'm hot! I'm freezing!"). I've left him at home (with company!) today, which made him a little sad -- he absolutely loves coming to Family Music Jam at Mama's Hip.
I thought I would be disciplined and self-therapeutic in my alone time and write away some crazy in my lovely red Moleskin™. Being the prepared writer that I am, however, I have forgotten a pen. That's what I get for following one tiny suggestion by that fool who clearly has no children, Marie Kondo, and taking everything out of my purse. (Another blog about that. Very little need to purge your stuff if you've moved TransAtlantic recently. But I like to read the water-cooler books. Or Moms-Groups books, I should say more accurately.)
Anyway, instead I'm catching up on long-unanswered emails and messages, sitting with a half-caff espresso in a tiny cup, a blank page on my iPad, and yes I will admit this the September 2015 Anthropologie catalog that I can't seem to throw away because: Paris.
It is Paris.
It is laughing, confident women with a glass of wine strolling down a Rue de MyLifeIsBetterThanYours with dangly earrings and a manicure.
It doesn't make me sad or envious. It doesn't make me wish I could be those woman; I have been those women. Occasionally, I still am those women.
But I want to me those women again sooner rather than later.
And then I look around at other people in this coffeeshop and imagine what they think of me: a woman, alone, sipping an espresso, nibbling on a crepe, writing, daydreaming, a guitar case at my side. Overall, it's pretty good to me.
0 comments