By 7pm when I arrived home, my physical discomfort had been offset by a foul mental state. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, too many acorns of random thoughts being chased by squirrels in my head. Life's been moving pretty fast recently.
I realized that I could use a good run. Unfortunately, when I packed my boxes and bags back in January, I used the same sort of crap decision-making that led to today's hangover. For some reason, I put my tennis shoes (useful ~4 times a week) in one of the boxes entrusted to a freight shipping company, and put my sexy stilettos (useful ~2 times ever) in my carry-on luggage. I have no idea when/if I'll see those freight boxes again, and the freight company offices are temporarily snowbound in Boston, so can't even provide tracking information. For all I know, my sneakers are at this moment kicking the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Until I receive confirmation, though, I absolutely refuse to pay $150 out of my dwindling bank account for new treads.
So I put on flip flops (thongs!) and went strolling. It turns out that my heretofore unexplored neighborhood is gorgeous. Just south of the little web of streets where I live, the suburb becomes an upper-upper-middle class wonderland. Manicured gardens meander prettily around the terraced, clean architecture of tasteful two story homes set among shady green trees. Light plays through the leaves as the cool evening breeze bustles down streets named "Elm," "Cedar," "Hatherly." I stumbled upon the very house which, without a doubt, is the dream abode that's been floating outside of fixed reality in my mind for years. It exists! I wanted to go sell my soul to start mortgage payments this very instant.
The evening detox walk had a secondary motive. Tomorrow morning is "hard rubbish" day, which means the city garbage collectors will pick up any larger trash, construction materiel, old furniture, etc. For poor students, it is a good time to watch the curb. I still need a bedside table, after all. I've also been on the lookout for an old, paint-stripped window frame. I think it would make for a neat look on my mantle. So I was vaguely, surreptitiously eying trash piles. Slowing down just a bit, but not enough to make the other evening walkers think I'm the sort of person who looks through trash piles.
And then, in a pile of doors and rotting 2x4s I spotted a metal trellis. Maybe 6 inches wide by 8 feet high. Wire. Not too rusty or bent. It had potential. It would be perfect to hang on one of my very bare bedroom walls. I could clip photos to it! Postcards! I can't live without decor for long; I have a real need to get creative with my living space. It's been almost a full week in this room, and I have paltry little to show for it. This other man's trash was looking like an absolute treasure. But picking scrap metal out of a trash pile is not something I do often. And walking a mile home with it under my arm is awkward enough. Nevermind that I'm passing lawyers arriving home from their Mercedes-powered commutes and well-heeled young couples pushing their perfect babies in thousand dollar prams. There's a gorgeous sunset happening, and I'm lugging home an unwieldy wire checkerboard. I assured myself that my find was just as worthwhile, precious, and normal as the showbreed white dog leashed to a stunning young man in casual loafers. I considered explaining the situation. "It's for art," I would tell the guy. And he would be bowled over by my offbeat beauty, whisk me away to one of the nearby bistros for a bottle of wine and a chat about eclecticism. He would be cultured and wealthy, interested mostly in my mind, and he'd ask me to all sorts of swish cocktail events where I could show off my hot stilettos. Alas, he didn't even invite my banter with a double-take. I swear his dog snorted at me.
So I have some doing to do before I'm ready for that gorgeous house on Northgate Street. At least the wall of my comfy little bedroom looks cooler than it did this morning.
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