It's nights like these that I feel a little old. It's Friday night, I've been home from work for all of thirty minutes. I've been in my PJ's for 29 of those minutes. I'm propped up in my bed, glass of wine by one hand, 2 books and a journal by the other. There are two posts that have been cooking on the back burner for a week now, but instead I've landed on a good old fashioned ramble.
So what makes me feel old? See paragraph one. It's Friday night, and I'm in my pajamas. At 10:30. Shouldn't I be at a bar, whooping it up, stumbling home drunk at 3 a.m. after downing some greasy food in an attempt to sober up? Maybe. And I'm sure had I tried a little harder I could have found a few friends to join me in some intoxicated endeavours. But really, all I wanted was my bed, the glass of wine, some calming music, and a few books to drown out the noise in my head. I could be 85 or 18 tonight, I'm not really sure which. I love my job, but sometimes after a week full of talking heads and political pundits the only thing I want is a little quiet.
I raise my glass of chardonnay in your direction, and leave you with something I came across from one of my favorite authors:
"Geologists may see their years in terms of time, musicians in some echo that dies in air, the poet strains language beyond the bounds of telling, the physicist sees diagrams of force rather than forms, the historian watches himself as one more wave among waves of sea; but to us, who delight in maps, the idea of life inclines to be spatial - we see it moving from point to point, like a river, if we have more feeling for the unexpectedness of nature" - Freya Stark
Here's to the weekend, and to enjoying it, whether you burn the midnight oil or prefer to warm your hands by it!
Police officer shoots suspect during fight in Fla.
7 minutes ago