Do Something Already

I feel like I'm jumping up and down, waving my arms around. I'm not literally, but that's what's going on inside of me. Happy, excited, but trying to get attention. Hence the jumping and arm-waving.

Waiting on a sage little bird.

I can't concentrate on any of my tasks at hand. Hurry UP!

Come on, Come on! I figured everything out, it's time.

An optimist suddenly? Yup. Now get a move on.

Old Age and the Salsa Queen

Sunday, January 27, 2008, 2:15 a.m.

I'm sitting at a table at the Doug Fir Lounge surrounded by my friends, and quite impressed by the fact that I'm still wide awake, alert, and full of energy after three+ hours of salsa dancing.

Earlier that day, I seriously considered not going. I had a residual headache from a cold, the weather was TERRIBLE, and venturing outside seemed like too much effort. But it was my friend's birthday, and he had been talking about getting everyone together for dancing for ages, so I didn't want to disappoint him. I rested all day, and hoped for the best.

I recounted all this, and attributed my late-night energy to the fact that I laid low all day. Across the table, one of my friends said that she had the same strategy, and that "that's how you know we're getting old."

What? Oh my gosh, she's right! If it's gotten to the point that I need to take it easy all day in order to stay out late at night, that's an indication of impending middle-age. But hey, I enjoyed myself, so whatever works, right?

Salsa dancing is fun, even if you don't really know what you're doing. It's fun to dance, and fun to watch everyone else dance. As long as you move to the beat, you're okay. One of my friends swears that he can't feel or hear the beat. So he tries to listen super-attentively, and count. Success doesn't usually result from this method; I think maybe he is just thinking way too hard about the whole dancing process and psyches himself out. How can that be possible? This perplexes me. Bass rumbles your chest and shakes your feet. It seems impossible not to feel it.

We all watched red-shirt guy in amusement. He danced with a variety of women with gusto, always with a creepy/mental expression on his face. Really, words can't fully describe his expression, but I will give it my best shot: eyebrows raised, nose scrunched up, mouth open with a maniacal grin plastered across it. Concensus: red shirt guy was creepy.

Winter Hours

The last couple of weeks here have been quite cold. This week: sunny and cold, last week, cloudy and cold.

One particularly wintery morning last week, the sky was overcast, and everything was coated with at least a little ice. Scraping and defrosting the Volvo in order to leave for work made me feel as though I lived somewhere that had REAL winters.

Walking from the garage to my office, I noticed that the neighboring Lebanese restaurant had a sign on its door: "New Winter Hours." Had I been transplanted to the East Coast? The white sky threatened snow, everyone passing by was bundled up. This week, the pizza place next door followed suit: taped to a window was a "Winter Hours" sign as well.

So far, snow has just been a tease, but the cold weather has made me feel cozy, and, for whatever reason, reminds me of being a kid. Remember "3-2-1 Contact"?