If only Blair had posted one of these signs next to the cellar door…
There’s nothing better than padding around in a bathrobe like an old lady and having nothing to do- especially after accomplishing a six mile run in sub-freezing temperatures with quality running pals. I think that this is my last few days of calm here in fair Arlington, so I’m trying to be extra lazy. Soon, I’ll be turning north towards the dreaded New Jersey Turnpike and throwing a month’s paycheck at the George Washington Bridge before counting to 92 in Connecticut and seeing if I can still say “Mashantucket Pequot” without stumbling. It’ll be here before I know it.
Now that I’m at the end of language school, I can look back and be pretty satisfied my gift of a six-month “vacation” in the District. I’m not going to bore you with a laundry list that demonstrates how wonderful and productive I think I am (I told you I was being lazy this weekend), but I will say with certitude that my body is definitely feeling worn out. I’m surprised that I haven’t yet been felled by the decidedly lame swine flu, and still manage to keep up on the hamster wheel without doing a 360° or two.
Actually, maybe I should take that back. I did take a fantastic fall down the stairs on Wednesday- not quite ass-over-bambox- but still in perfect imitation of a cartoon character. It was as funny as it was painful, and when I found myself staring at the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs, I couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that no one was around to see my gymnastics. But I digress…
I’m taking leave before I actually fly off the continent and forget the French words for ‘ice’ and ‘mittens’. The thirty days of relative repose that I will get to spend at home is the best Christmas gift that I could ever hope to receive. When the icy wind blows the last of those affluent tourists over the canal bridges, that’s when the Cape is truly at its prime: beautiful and barren, with only the sounds of cackling seagulls and Hallinans to punctuate the stillness.
Much like at Thanksgiving, I have idealistic visions of me sitting at home and resuming my station in the natural order of the family dynamic. For better or for worse (I tend to usually think better), nobody in my family is ever impressed by my shiny metal collar devices or holds me in esteem because people run around calling me “Commander” with snappy salutes. Instead, I fully expect a demotion to my rightful place as the third of five ornery and impudent children, where I am unceremoniously told on a daily basis that my questionable level of common sense raises concern for the security of our country.
With that I am sure that I will respond with a very grown-up “Nuh-uh!” and then storm off by tripping over a can of open primer that is followed by another swift journey down the carpeted stairs.
God Bless America!
Can you tell it’s cold? Can you tell I’m happy?