TRUDGE, TRUDGE, TRUDGE . . .

There’s a little bit of monologue by the Jeffrey Chaucer character (played amusingly by Paul Bettany) in (forgive me my cougar fantasies) the old Heath Ledger beef-ish cake-ish flick, A Knight’s Tale:  “Ahhh, yes, to trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man (sic) who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.”

My friends, the best I have to offer tonight is a bit of a trudge . . . for it has been a busy week, and I feel old(-ish) and weary(-ish).  A little more than six hours of sleep tonight–for a change–and a studly mug of coffee mañana should see me right.  Meanwhile, life in these parts is thus:

Early spring storms and a sudden drop in temperatures (happens every year) has me wearing my tornado eyes, looking for that slightly suspicious raggedy-tag of a cloud that might spin itself into a rare, wee funnel . . .

I keep snipping and bringing bits of freesia, roses, and irises inside, and I can smell them all the way from the dining room . . . (I also keep talking about this and am probably boring my few readers into a state of stupefaction re same) . . .

. . . am entertained with the whole “cougar” concept . . . men have been plucking the freshest little flowers for years (can you say “30-year age difference’?), and nobody ever came up with a special name for that . . . To me, “cougar” suggests nothing so much as a starving wildcat stalking its prey, and a little desperation, perhaps? . . .  Anyway, it rings a trifle sexist in mine ears . . .

However, if I were not to take offense and instead decided to embrace my inner cougar (and I trust that  my husband understands and forgives me for saying so), here’s my tentative list of fantasy prey for tonight:

Heath Ledger (forget the fact that he’s dead; if he weren’t, he’d still be a stunning specimen of youth, hunk-itude, sensitivity, talent, and gangly goofiness–plus that voice, those eyes, that smile);

Daniel Day-Lewis (okay, so he’s probably the same age I am, but allow me to revel in thoughts of his god-like pulchritude);

M_ D_ (his name need not even be spoken, and my reasons for this choice have already been documented in previous posts);

My check-out guy at Trader Joe’s today (23-ish, charmingly gangly, smart, and funny); and finally

The Zen waiter (actually the exact kinda guy I would have silently worshiped about, oh–say 30 years ago, give or take).

And now it’s even later, and I’m even more tired, and the only trudging left for me to do is to bed.

Nighty-night

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About creat1ve11

psychotherapist by trade, writer and artist by temperament, over 50 and not fighting it, love the idea of snorting milk through my nose, but have never actually done it
This entry was posted in aging, beauty, blogging, life, mortality, Reflecting, Uncategorized, women and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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