tuckova

My sister sent me a bathing suit (two, actually: a black one that I
asked for and a blue one that she picked) and it came yesterday. I am
going to hire her to come here and Geranimalize my wardrobe, so that
all the tops match all the bottoms and I will never again be standing
in front of the closet all, does faded black still go with black? and
weeping. The suit she picked is a very vaa-vaa-voom bathing suit; it is
the color of sweet Westley’s eyes, and it makes me look like I don’t
even know what. A forties film star from the neck down. Like someone
who uses a lot of L words. Lounge. Lush. From the neck up I’m the human
embodiment of practical fun. Short hair is awesome because you can get
stuck in a massive rainstorm and be all, flip! and back to normal.
Altogether this bathing suit feels like a reward for managing to stay
in my body this spring. After about three months of pain in one place
or another and more doctors than I’ve seen in ten years total, I think
I’m finally feeling normal. Spring sucked a fair bit of life from me,
but it’s summer now so I am done with the swooning and I am definitely
done with the waiting rooms, I do declare. I noticed yesterday that I
was sitting up straight and my back didn’t hurt, and my body and I
enthusiastically high-fived over it. Basically I feel better, I look
great and you totally wish I was your girlfriend. Sadly (for you) as
Friar Tuck is the first man I’ve lived with who didn’t tell me I’d be really
pretty if I just lost some weight, he’s the one who gets me. However,
you and I can still be great friends, and if you’re really nice to me
I’ll let you touch the hem of my extremely cute bathing skirt.

In other news, we went to a concert (neocekavany dychanek)
last week that was just awesome. I don’t even have words. It was so
much music, and so loud, and yet each one of them (accordion, electric
guitar, flute, drums, sax, clarinet, mandolin, and I think there were
some more) got a turn and they all seemed to be having fun. The female
singer danced like mad whenever she wasn’t playing flute or swinging
around a megaphone (she’s very pregnant and she did
more moving on that stage than an aerobics teacher, it was like
watching Tina Weymouth in "Stop Making Sense"). The accordion player
pogoed!  AND I’ve never seen anyone type as fast
as that clarinet player could move his fingers. The whole thing was
just…
exhilarating. The audience was great, too, like watching deadheads
dancing to punk music, and since I couldn’t understand the words much
because it was too fast and busy, I got to people-watch like mad and
think anne thoughts without feeling like I was missing anything. I was
thinking, for example, that the female singer is beautiful and yet
because she is talented she seems detached from her appearance, which
enables her to make faces like crazy and still seem gorgeous.

And then this weekend, which was coincidentally St. John’s Eve,
we went to the cottage and worked and played super hard and we walked
home through the forest with certain wise people, we stepped over
fireflies instead of over fires, and everything was sparkling and
wonderful, and it seemed as magical as fern seed and perhaps now we
really are invincible. Or invisible. Either way.