It should be expected that these days might feel like a roller coaster--ups and downs. Began on an up note. Cool patterned tights, a polka-dotted blouse, my tall black boots, and kick-ass accessories--getting dressed for work is like dress-up for adults. Matte red lipstick from the age of the femme fatale. Feeling positive and flattered when my pusher characterized my morning fix as "impressive." But I still have not decided if that is a positive (impressive) or negative (4 shots of espresso=s addiction).* I delivered my bit about "barista" being Italian for pusher. He did not laugh but shared that they (the worker bees) are also addicted; a junkie's sadness, desperation, and longing in his eyes.
Cheerful all the way to work, the city shrouded in mist, looking rather Gotham-like, half expecting to see the bat signal flashing in the sky. Drove past the ball park; giant Tigers silent but poised and ready to roar for tomorrow's home opener. Deciding whether to wear red lipstick everyday, weighing the responsibility and commitment that wearing red lipstick requires. First, a coat of lip emollient (I cannot find my rosebud salve and am broke so settled for Vaseline in a tube on sale at Walgreens for .99), then blot. The first coat of red--classic, vintage Hollywood red that I bought for my 20-year high school reunion in 2009 (Nars--Red Lizard), blot. A second coat of Red Lizard, smooshed around with my finger to fill in the places the tip could not reach. Blot. Then, a hint of gloss because all-the-way matte scares me a bit. In less than 3 hours I've had to refresh my lipstick 3 times.
An email from my fellow worshipper at the altar of paper and ink books, who is from across the pond, and despises faux books or e-readers, made me laugh out loud and feel hopeful about the continued existence of paper and ink books. The Brit's adult daughters taunt him with these faux books, which are ironically sold in bookstores. The Brit is a frequent traveler and his friends and colleagues often try to tempt him with the convenience of this devices, the flexibility, the ability to access any book, any time without having to lug heavy books about, and even the shape which mimics the quality paperback. Once upon a time, an old friend raved about his Kindle, extolling its virtues. The Brit met him for a beer last night, and the friend "waxed lyrical" about the real thing--words in ink on paper--recently having sold his faux book device on Ebay. The friend wondered about a recovery group and has returned to the real thing. The Brit was happy, and I laughed out loud as I read his email. It reminded me of when Victor Laslow welcomes Rick back to the fight at the end of Casablanca, assuring him that "this time our side will win." We have to savour the small victories was the lesson that I learned.
And that perhaps there is hope for our hopelessly technology dependent society. (Don't bother pointing out the irony of the medium that I use to share my musings. I have a love-hate relationship with technology that rivals my love-hate familial relationships). And hope for the continued existence of ink and paper books.
But now as the buzz wears off from my morning fix, I am feeling noticeably blah and rather sick to my stomach. Wanting to go home and sleep it off. But taking a half day tomorrow to see the home opener and so behind at work, so going home and hiding under the covers is not an option.
Bah-humbug? Hoping that some take-out chicken noodle soup will prove good for the soul.**
*After experiencing migraines and perhaps underestimating my overall caffeine intake but admitting to my then morning fix of a triple grande nonfat mocha, my doctor unequivocally stated that 3 shots of espresso was just too much caffeine. Pretty sure that he might have me committed to inpatient rehab if he knew that I have graduated to 4 shots of espresso in my morning fix.
**In college, I worked for Borders, Books, Music, and Cafe. I began my illustrious career in the espresso bar or "e-bar" as we affectionately called it. Eventually, I switched over to my true love--books. My first assignment was to care for and shelve the self-help section which I not-so-affectionately referred to as the you-a-swift-kick-in-the-ass section. To this day, I loathe self-help books and include the "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books in this genre. Of course, I do believe that chicken soup is literally good for the soul and body but wanted to clarify that this was not a reference to the metaphorical marketing dynasty built on this truism. And RIP, my Borders which recently closed it's doors. Damn you, faux books!
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