Monday, March 10, 2014
haiku about chips in the tub, after all) and, oh, yes, bathing and washing my hair. I just had the idea of starting a blog series titled "after the bubbles", but that would add a work ethic to the bathtub, and it wouldn't be long before I started bringing in a notebook along with the snack, and plotting ways to safely bring in the iPad to start the writing in the presence of the bubbles. So, no series.
Sometimes when I catch a flash of my face in the bathroom mirror I think that I'm pretty, especially when my hair's up after a bath. Then I look again, and I analyze, and my nose looks too round and dumpling-like, and the rest of my face is merely workmanlike-functional, and that's that for the pretty until next time.
When I started this clothes thing I focused--not particularly by intent--on the clothes that I had never experienced before. Little black skirts that expose my calves and even, gasp, my knees. Silk. Jewelry. A coat that isn't the same as the coat I wore yesterday, and the same for my shoes. A bra that fits. A shirt that dips toward the bra-that-fits instead of hugging my neck. Contented puttering around holding this shirt against that skirt, though not without moments of frustration when I realize that that corn-colored silky sleeveless top that I paid too much for goes with absolutely nothing at all.
I'm already shifting to a new phase--for example, realizing that the novelty of exposed knees wears off and I really prefer a long, slim skirt that flirts with my shoes, though maybe when I find one I'll look for walking ease in the form of a slit that occasionally shows my legs rather than a knit fabric that hides them.
My, that was a long sentence. Blame the bubbles.
And the skirt could be something rich, sometimes, maybe tapestry-like with a silk-satin lining in a color. Sagey green woven in leaves and lined with emerald silk, let's say.
My fingers are pruney.
And that is all.
Image: Wikimedia Commons