I thoroughly enjoyed myself this weekend. I spent time in a car driving to a yarn shop in Bremen with a few friends; I did not buy any yarn, much as I wanted to take home the beautiful pink and green yarn I kept on admiring. I pretended I was at the Cape and played mini golf, rode go-carts, and ate ice cream, and burned the tip of my nose being outside so much. I sang in my car, wore a t-shirt outside (yes, it was THAT warm), and bought our groceries for the weekend. We ate wings and drank rum and cokes and slept in both days. The only thing I did not do that I wanted to do was take my spinning wheel outside and fill a bobbin full of handspun goodness. Life is good.
Today I leafed through a few notebooks I kept while in high school. Starting my sophomore year of high school and continuing until I graduated, I filled a few books a year. I initially used these notebooks as a place to doodle and draw in the summers with my cousin, and later on I drew out website designs and wrote bad poetry within the covers I decorated with pictures from magazines, fruit stickers, and used bingo card sheets. I’d draw people, make lists of songs I liked and bands I was getting into at the time, and of course, I’d write poetry. Bad poetry.
I cringe when I read my old poetry. I wrote about boys, boys, boys, and how different I was from everyone else around me; typical angsy teenager fare. Still, I am embarassed. It’s funny, thinking back to my teenage years, back when I’d sit in my room for hours, listening to music, waiting for that one song to come on the radio so I could record it on one of my many mix tapes. (I still deem mix tapes superior to mix CDs and even playlists, mainly because of the love and care that went into a 120 minute tape. Everything had to fit just so; it sucked when a song would get cut off because you reached the end of the tape. But, I digress.) I’d write my poetry and keep my bedroom door closed, listening to the Beatles and thought I knew it all, man. Again, typical teenager stuff.
I am glad I did keep some sort of record of my life back then. I’ve been writing in a paper journal since the age of ten, though I didn’t start writing longer, more in depth entries until about ten years ago. (Before this, I’d write roughly once a year about my crush of the moment. Riveting, yes.) Though I didn’t write a masterpiece while sweating in my non-air-conditioned bedroom on the first floor of my parents’ house, I did keep an accurate record of my life. It’s funny, looking back at things.
Spring inspires me. I feel more awake and alive today than I did a month, two months ago. January and February are my least favorite months, and while I don’t like March much either, it’s when things start warming up a little bit, a sign of things to come. But I love April. I love flowers and leaves and hearing birds outside, taking walks around the neighborhood, driving home from work at 6:30pm, windows down, sun still shining. (Yes. Today I left work at 6:30. Not too happy about staying late, though I honestly don’t have to stay late much, so I’m not too too mad when I have to at times. But still.) I’m looking forward to traveling and being near the ocean, sitting outside and drinking beers with my husband and friends, talking and laughing and enjoying ourselves.
I just love this time of year.
