cool girl

I started to clean the house.  It's a weekly routine, dusting, vacuuming, the regular stuff, basically mundane. And I couldn't seem to focus, flitting from task to task like a moth searching for light.

Cool, down-tempo music beat in the background. 

You know, the kind of stuff you'd hear at a totally chill night club. That's where the pretty people go to sip pretty cocktails. And here I was in jeans with a hole in the knee and a baggie sweater.

I sat down for a cup of Chai and picked up my notebook; abandoning the cleaning.

I allowed myself to be transported by the acoustics to that vibing club. In my imagination, I walked in pulsing to the sounds. I wore a mod black slip dress, hair slightly messy with sun-kissed bare arms and legs.

Several years ago I might have pulled this off. Now, as an old woman, I still have the down beat in my soul and the messy hair; my legs and arms are waiting for the sun to come kiss them. Inside, I'm a cool girl. However, she's disguised in jeans and a baggie sweater swaying rhythmically with the mop.

This is a poetic-license look into one of my days last week. 

I'd really intended on being very productive, but found myself drifting from task to task; mind wandering as much as my body. Dang, I needed to focus, but focus kept eluding me.

One thing that didn't elude was a desire to listen to music, to be taken with it's rhythm and words. It infused my writing with a touch of raw honesty. I'm not that cool girl. I'm also not the old woman. I'm someone who's meandering somewhere in between.

I think it's ok to be not here and not be there. Mostly, that's how I live and always have; not quite fitting a mold or fitting in. My guess? Even the cool girl feels this way...

Missy

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