Friday

I feel oddly Dilbert-esque, but TGIF. I really mean it, really I do. This week just took the wind out of me, and I'm not entirely sure why. School and work and volunteerism and relationship and friendships? All at once, all wonderful and exhausting.

To prove how badly I needed to unwind, I offer this highly unlikely vignette: I took the garbage out this evening, and on the walk across the yard I stopped to stoop and pluck a few weeds from the gravel. With a garbage can full of scraps and fingernails encrusted with soil to show for my effort, I finally stood up and said I was done. It was so engrossing to pull weeds. Precisely what I needed, and happily much cheaper than a stiff drink. Those of you who know me will understand why this particular tale is remarkable. I will enlighten the strangers: I'm not known for my outdoors or yard-y prowess. At all. I think I am known more as an urbanite who can spend hours reading news and gossip sites, and seeking out articles about or suggestions for good food. (God, am I a yuppie?) Not really a weeder.

A friend of mine from middle school started a blog a few weeks ago, and thanks to the magic of the random e-mail, I was alerted to this fact. Her writing is amazing. She can describe a scene with such an enviable way. Totally great. And here's the funny part: she still sounds like my old friend from middle school, despite the lifetime of experiences we've each had in our own orbits. It's great - she has a womanly air, but is still my old, goofy, too-smart-for-her-own-good friend. Isn't age strange?

I had a minor crisis last night about clothes. Profound, I know. I got dressed to meet Steve at a party hosted by his company (my former employer, btw), and was feeling quite cute and put together in my adorable new skirt. (Note: adorable new skirts are not the norm in my world, akin to that whole gardening thing.) Really, I felt spritely and cute, sorta like the I could mime the opening SJP sequence on Sex and the City, sans bus and dousing.

I drove to the club, singing along with some poppy number. I turned the corner and drove by the club, and was horrified to see a long line of aging music types in jeans and nondescript black shirts. Jeans. Rock. And me, looking like an Anthropologie ad. So, instead of saying, "Wow, I'm so glad I look so cute," I frantically called Steve's cell phone with the intention of declaring my need to go home and change into jeans. He didn't answer, a space opened up, and I parked, resigning myself to my fashion puberty. Then it hit me: why (oh why?) did I care so much about being "overdressed?" Why was I having throes of middle school-esque panic about my hipness quotient? Why, indeed? I berated myself for not being thrilled with who I've become, and I went into the club to join Steve at the party. Silly, silly girl. I'm not sure why I'm sharing this moment - at the time it seemed like a worthy blog moment: Aging indie rocker wears white (ironed) shirt to club party, and orders chardonnay!

So, that was my week. How are you?