Irony

It's not raining, but I hear the thunder and smell the ozone of the coming storm. Despite the grayness of the skies, it seems that every detail has been thrown into high definition. Each grain of bark and each leaf stands as sharply defined as if it were a separate entity from its tree. With the muddle in my mind, I'm glad that something is clear and distinct.

It hit me tonight that I feel just like I did as a teenage girl, not carefree and giggly, but wistful and dreamy, but underlaid by the stern reality being middle aged. Maybe I've loaded the mp3 with too many oldies. Maybe the hormonal ride of perimenopause has its own sick sense of humor, and my body is flush with remembrances, holding onto a dimly recalled appropriate response to the pattern recognition of chemical changes. Maybe I'm just too much in love with the bittersweet and create it in my life when there's very little else of interest.

Anyway, I've set up my music to fit my mood, going for the deep, quiet sadness of certain really good country songs, Sunday Morning Coming Down by Kris Kristofferson, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain by Willie Nelson, Crazy by Patsy Cline, Go Rest High On That Mountain by Vince Gill. Growing up, I hated country music, and most of it still annoys me, but oh, when it's good, it's damn good. Instead of trying to change this odd mood of mine, I'm going to ride with it.

There's something about me that feels like I should be happy, even bubbly all the time, ever ready with a smile or a quip. Screw that. It's neither normal nor realistic, and I shouldn't flog myself with that expectation. Screw being happy. Screw being charming. Screw being courageous. Screw being anything other than what I am right now. Being wistful, a little sad, a little regretful, a little dreamy just might be the boldest, bravest thing I could do.

moods