February 23, 2014
Complaining can get me everywhere. At least that is what
seems to be the motivation behind whimpering about the nostril-hair-freezing temps, stockpiles of
snow so high I cannot tell where the dog has meandered off to during our walks,
gas gone up one day so I race to fill the tank, only to have it drop five cents
the next morning, my Visa bill is coming and has my Izmir airline ticket price
screams at me, and I am out of half-n-half therefore won’t choke down black
coffee and have to resort to tea. My vocal distress only leads to more of the
same. My essential oil diffuser spewing “Awaken” and “Peace and Calming,” deep
breaths and a vigorous Pilates workout are what I need to jolt myself out of
the trap.
A Gallery Opening took me out of my usual fray and into the
splash of downtown life for an hour or two. Startling cement-box condos,
elaborate stark décor, jolt me into submission. We meander three levels of
jutting open-air layers, sipping tart wine, eating exclusive sweet and savory
snacks, hobnobbing among friends. Felt as though I came from the rural naivety,
sliced into the world (like Pullman’s
The Subtle Knife) of trend and aristocratic posh. A kindred spirit
chided the group about the evils of plastic water bottles, encouraged enlightened
purchasing power, and won my applause. The alcohol took the edge off my icy
driving jitters and I made it home lickety split. A bit of slipping and
sliding, but I have no complaints.
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