I have a lot of jobs and because I have a lot of jobs my days are scheduled down to the hour and sometimes the half hour.
Half an hour for this job. Half an hour for this one. An hour doing stuff for the restaurant. Write a post for my blog. Write a post for the magazine blog. Meeting here. Meeting there. Oh, my column was due 21 days ago, you say? I guess I should get started on that. Tee-hee.
So my crazy life means I forgot to tell you about my column from last month so you might get to read two new columns at once!
While the other members of my tour group took in the big picture, scanning the rooms with generous sweeps of their gazes, I was absorbing every single inch of your space. I imagined myself as a young belle gracefully descending the stairs to greet a visiting suitor. My gaze down. My demeanor coy.
“So amiable of you to call at such an hour … Mr. Darcy.”
I really can’t explain to you what it’s like for me walking through that house. I was trying so hard to imagine living in it. What it must have been like. What Henry Clay was like at his darkest hours. And he had a lot of dark hours. The deaths of two children, the awful events at Homestead, etc.
Also, a few things that got cut for space (WHY, GOD, WHY DO YOU KILL MY WORDS?!):
I’m a romantic – a closet romantic, I should say. I’ll admit my romantic nature in public as sort of a trifling thing … “Oh, I’m a romantic.” But I have never admitted the excessive degree of my romanticism because I don’t have enough cats to back up such crazy-cat-lady behavior. If I had the time, I would read historical romance novels until I unintentionally began talking like Jane Austen the way Madonna “unintentionally” began talking all British-like.
As I read the spine of every book I could in Henry’s library, I wondered, what was he like behind the beard and cold eyes? Did he ever sit there at the desk in his study and mourn the events that took place at Homestead? Did he regret the loss of lives or did he justify the means to an end?
Visiting that house has me currently reading two books about Frick and Mellon and my God, Pittsburgh history is better than any Mexican telenovela EVER. I assume there is a slap fight coming up pretty soon.
Anyway, moral of the story is this: I’d like to do seven minutes in heaven with Mr. Darcy in a closet at Clayton.
2. This month’s column is all about how I can’t run, where can’t doesn’t mean won’t, it means I suck so bad at it that I just can’t. At all. Like I look at people who run for pleasure and I wonder what exactly is broken in their brains that they find joy in such deliberately sought out torture.
I fared no better in distance races, probably because I considered 200 yards to be a “distance race.” I wondered why there weren’t any water stations at the 100-yard mark. Or why no one covered me with a foil blanket when I deliriously collapsed across the finish line.
By the middle of the second lap, the barrette that had been precariously clasped around my huge, curly, Chaka Khan-ish mane would burst open with an audible snap and land on the track behind me. So instead of looking like a girl running laps, I now looked like a crazed, asylum-escaped lunatic fleeing her demons.
Go have a read here. And whatever you do, don’t you dare try to convince me that I TOO could learn to enjoy running.
Unless I’m running after a Nutella truck being driven by Mr. Darcy, I just can’t see the end being worth the means.